Healing
by Anria
Summary: [Complete!] Schuldig's POV as he copes with life after Schwarz and Estet. And then Yohji finds him, and things get interesting. Rating bumped up to R because of excessive language and minor smut.
1. Part 1

Hullo! If you've already read this on Mediaminer.org, my apologies. ^_^ Enjoy!

**Warnings**: language. LOTS of language. Also angst, Schuldig POV, future citrus, and Asuka. Yes, I consider Asuka a warning.  
**Pairings**: Schuldig/Yohji  
**Disclaimer**: I think I like the denial stage. Mine, alllll mine!  
**Archive**: The Temple of Lunacy, http://lunatic.deep-ice.com .  
**Summary**: Schuldig's POV as he copes with life after Schwarz and Estet. And then Yohji finds him, and things get interesting. Shitty summary, but the best I could come up with.

Counter fic for Karen from KanaDUH!

**Healing**  
by Anria  
**Part 1**

When I woke, I had the strangest sensation of silence.

Well, there's a novelty. Most of the time it's like being in a club with the volume set on 'Burst Eardrums' - not being able to hear yourself think is an understatement. I know humans never stop thinking, but goddammit, why do they have to do it so _loud_?

Eh, anyway. Like I said, when I woke there was silence. Well, comparative silence, not total silence - a quiet murmur in the back of my mind rather than a screaming cacophony. Which meant one of two things: a) I was dead, or b) there was no one around.

I opened my eyes and realised I was in a hospital. There is nothing in the world quite like a hospital. I think it was the smell that alerted me more than anything. Yeuch.

Well, there went the first theory. And since there were bound to be more people here than me, there went the second one, too.   
  
So what the fuck. . . ?   
  
I was jolted out of my thoughts by the emergence of a rather large nurse from . . . some adjoining room. She was humming tunelessly, bustling about and completely ignoring me. Which was probably just as well, since I was staring at her in shock realising . . . I had to strain to hear her thoughts. They should have been overwhelming me, but. . . .   
  
Withdrawing my attention from the room, I started poking around inside my head. What I found shocked me more than anything had managed to do before in my life - I had shields. Honest-to-God fucking _shields_. I _never_ have functioning shields. Crawford made sure of that, since he asked me to drop them every other minute. It wouldn't be a problem for a weaker telepath, who could whack up shields again instantly, but mine take _days_ to build properly. I have a lot of power to contain.   
  
But I had honest-to-God fucking _shields_.   
  
How long was I out for, anyway?   
  
"How long have I been out for?"   
  
Ah. So strong emotion will seep through . . . most of it got blocked out, but I could still feel a slight echo of her sudden stab of shock. "Oh, you're awake!" she exclaimed.   
  
Yeah, thanks for pointing out the obvious. Here, have a cookie. "Where am I?" I asked. Sure, I _could_ just skim the information from the top of her thoughts, but that would mean letting down my shields and giving up my silence. I wasn't sure I quite wanted to do that, yet.   
  
"Central Hospital in Tokyo," the nurse said, a sunny smile splitting her face in two now she'd got over her surprise. "We were beginning to think you'd never wake up! All your vital signs were good, and there was brain activity, but it was just like you decided you wanted to sleep for six months!" She laughed.   
  
Six months.   
  
Okay, that explains the shields.   
  
"Well now, I'll just go get the doctor, shall I?" the woman said, waddling over to the end of the bed to take the clipboard off it before shuffling to the door. She paused, her girth framed in the doorway. "Oh, and what should we call you? You've been the John Doe for all the time you've been here. No identification, see?" she smiled again.   
  
_Estet's leaders are gone, but it might have built itself up again. . . ._ "Johann," I told her. "Johann Ricke."   
  
My own private joke. Translated from German-'John Doe.' Sure, to someone who knew me it wasn't _that_ much less obvious than Schuldig, but it was better than nothing.   
  
And anyway, it wouldn't stop Crawford finding me. . . .   
  
Crawford.   
  
It was just as well that the overly happy nurse had left, because I suddenly realised that I couldn't feel Schwarz any more. Crawford had insisted I set up a link between all of them, so that I could let them communicate with each other through me, and so that I would always know where they were and what was happening to them.   
  
And the links were gone.   
  
All of them.   
  
Which meant. . . .   
  
"Ah, Mr Ricke!"   
  
The doctor's voice jarred me out of my thoughts, but the conclusion ate at me. No links. I didn't remove them. I couldn't remove them. No links. Only one other thing could have cut it off. . . .   
  
"And how are you feeling, hmm?"   
  
How the fuck do you think I'm feeling?!   
  
_They're dead. All of them._   
  
_They're gone. They haven't survived the fall into the sea._   
  
_I'm alone._   
  
It scared the shit out of me.   
  
I bullshitted my way through the examination, and was discharged from the hospital that very day. They only part of my clothing they'd been able to salvage had been my shoes, which were just too damn solid to be ripped up by whatever the hell happened to me when I was tossed around in the sea. According to the overly cheerful nurse, the rest of my clothes had been ripped all to hell, and I spared a moment to mourn for my beloved green jacket.   
  
But clothes are just clothes, and besides, they gave me some more anyway. I expected at any moment to have a hefty hospital bill dumped in my lap, but instead I was told that I had been one of the first patients they had taken in under the new NHS legislation - or in other words, the Government paid for me. Which was just as well, since I had absolutely no fucking intention of wasting the good money I'd squirreled away over the years on a fucking hospital. I hate hospitals. Any time I had to go in one was a sign that I'd failed a mission.   
  
I got out of there as fast as I could, and was immediately faced with the problem of what the fuck to do now. The rest of Schwarz was dead. I had no idea about the condition of Estet, although I wouldn't have placed much money on their survival.   
  
So what was there for me to do?   
  
Uh . . . not a whole fucking lot.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Well, this is a nice shithole of an apartment. Actually, shithole's being generous. The ceiling's stained, the toilet leaks, there's graffiti on the walls from the last owner and the furniture which so _generously_ came with the apartment looks as though it's gonna fall apart any minute.   
  
I flop back on the bed, wincing at the harsh squeak of the springs. The bed needs oiling.   
  
. . . what the fuck? The _bed_ needs oiling?   
  
I need sleep. I'll have to go out and find a job in the morning - Schwarz is gone and Estet is dead, so I don't have anything to go back to. Not that I would voluntarily - even if it has cost me the lives of my companions for the better (or worse) half of my life, I wouldn't trade it for anything.   
  
I'm free.   
  
I grin to myself, relishing everything that comes with that. Sure, I have a shitty little apartment, but it's _my_ shitty little apartment. Not owned by whatever clown has enough money to buy my services at the moment, both as a bodyguard and a hired killer.   
  
I drift off to sleep, earlier depression gone. Who gives a fuck if the others are all dead? Not me. I'm alive. I'm free. I don't care at all if they're all dead. They're gone, I'm here. I'm alive, they're not.   
  
I'm alive. . . .   
  
_And they're not._

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Well, here's something I never thought I'd be doing. Heh, Schuldig the Bartender.   
  
I smirk to myself, tipping tequila into a shot glass. This is just about the perfect job for me now - working in a bar where people come to drown their sorrows. No speech, no contact, just delivering liquor for money. I didn't even have to prod the owner to hire me, he just checked I could make the drinks, told me the rules, and left me to it.   
  
My shields keep getting stronger. The thought has me almost bursting with pride every time I think it. My shields. I have shields. I can block out myself from everything else - I don't have to wonder any more if what I'm doing is what _I_ want to do, or what someone else wants to do.   
  
There is one problem, though - a simple touch has my shields crashing back down around my feet. Just the simple touch of skin on skin - I'm practising celibacy for probably the first time in my life. Funny, seeing as how casual sex used to be part of my way to keep the voices from taking me over - now I've found the opposite is far more effective. No wonder Mr Stick-Up-The-Ass Crawfish never protested about my nightly activities - the bastard knew it was helping to keep my shields low.   
  
Thinking about them brings back a pang now. I would've thought I'd feel like this in the beginning - missing them like a constant ache that recedes if you focus on something else, but grows until it's unbearable if you can't find anything else to think of. It never goes completely.   
  
Funny, I never thought I would miss any of them.   
  
Eh, live and learn.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

. . . okay, Schuldig, completely distancing yourself from everyone around you was okay in the beginning when you'd had your fill of human interaction, but in hindsight it was a really fucking bad idea.   
  
Goddammit, I'm lonely.   
  
I work in a bar, and I'm lonely.   
  
Okay, so I work in a bar where people come to drink themselves into a stupor, but still!   
  
Fuck it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My ceiling has water stains on it.   
  
It's also covered in cracks, lumps, and peeling wallpaper. Why someone felt the need to put wallpaper on the ceiling I don't know.   
  
Hands tucked behind my head, I lie on the bed (ooh, that rhymed) staring up at the brown, lumpy, cracked, stained ceiling. The window doesn't shut properly, letting a draft blow through the room. Every time I move so much as a millimetre, the bed creaks or squeaks or groans at me.   
  
Sometimes I move just to get some noise in here.   
  
You can tell I'm bored, can't you?   
  
TV doesn't cut it. It's stale, drab, and boring. Books are marginally better, but I've yet to find the right combination of blood, drugs, sex and violence as well as a character interesting enough to keep me reading. Internet . . . feh. That was Nagi's domain, not mine, and even if I had enough money from this job I wouldn't go there. It just . . . reminds me too much of Schwarz.   
  
And people. . . .   
  
When I first got out of that hospital, I made it clear to everyone I met that socialising was the last thing on my mind. They leave me alone now, which I suppose is courteous considering that it's what they thought I wanted, but leaves me bored out of my tiny little mind.   
  
Clubs are a big no-no. You go into a club and you're automatically subjecting yourself to skin-on-skin contact, which would shoot my shields to hell and back.   
  
Funny, I never realised just how bad I am at human interaction.   
  
It doesn't take much to get me bored, but it takes a lot to get me lonely.   
  
Now I'm both.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Another day at the grind. Sigh.   
  
I pour out another order and take the cash provided - I can take the money from his hand, since I've taken to wearing gloves - and shuffle over to the register. The boss insisted my hair be pulled back when I'm working at the bar - something about getting hair in the drinks. I was feeling too apathetic to argue with him, so now I'm stuck with the ponytail. I've got a bandanna, though. It's green. Bright green. It pisses off the boss, but it doesn't go against any rules so he can't yell at me for it. Today's the first day I've worn it in - I think tomorrow there will be a new rule against it.   
  
I'm still lonely.   
  
I'm counting out the guy's change when the door swings open. The bar is never very full, but any newbie always sits on the creaky black stool farthest from the door. Don't ask me why - I suppose I could find out fairly easily, but I think I've made it plenty clear I'm not doing that. I don't look up, just hand back the change.   
  
When the stool creaks, I move towards it.   
  
"What's your poison?" I ask, taking in the hunched shoulders and dirty blond hair. Everything about this guy screams 'drinking to die'.   
  
Then he looks up, and I get the shock of my life.   
  
Kudou.   
  
He's not wearing his sunglasses for once, so I get treated to the unobstructed view of his pretty green eyes widening as he recognises me.   
  
"Schuldig?"   
  
Out of the corner of my eye I see my boss's head turn, intrigued. I guess in this sort of place he _would_ be wary of anyone he hired who didn't say much about himself and apparently gave the wrong name.   
  
Feh. Screw that.   
  
"Sorry, I think you have the wrong person," I tell him, praying (Farfie would kill me for that) that he plays along. "My name's Johann."   
  
Kudou stares at me, so I take the opportunity to stare back at him. He's a fucking mess - his hair looks like it hasn't been washed in weeks, there are bags under his eyes, and his face is thinner than I remember. I don't need telepathy to read the defeat rolling off him.   
  
I remember my role suddenly, and slip back into it. "What d'you want to drink?" I ask him.   
  
Kudou shakes himself a bit, mouthing 'Johann' under his breath. "Whiskey," he says after a moment. "A whole bottle."   
  
I lean casually on the edge of the bar. "You sure? It'll cost you."   
  
Kudou just looks at me. I shrug and go to get his bottle. Looks like he's turning into a hardcore alcoholic - I'll give him something that burns a bit more than the usual crap. Hell, he's paying, not me.   
  
I set down a shot glass and the bottle in front of him, and turn to leave.   
  
Suddenly, Kudou's hand shoots out and clamps on my wrist. I clench my teeth, grateful for the gloves and the long sleeves. I see my boss watching us carefully from the corner; he's seen what's happened before when someone's touched me. I got a reputation. He's just waiting to break up the fight.   
  
I turn, trying not to shudder as even with the thin layer of cotton between us I can still feel some of Kudou's apathy, despair and the more recent shock filtering through.   
  
"Would you mind letting go of me, please," I say through gritted teeth.   
  
Surprisingly, he does, and wordlessly points at the bottle.   
  
I glance at it. Yeah, I didn't break the seal. Call it a peace overture if you like - I just don't want to have him wary of me poisoning him. Gimme a break, I'm trying the legal route for once.   
  
"You look like the paranoid type," I tell him, and walk away.   
  
I can feel him staring after me in surprise, but he says nothing. He sure doesn't talk as much as he used to.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He leaves just as the bar closes, having not said a word to me the entire night. I half-expect to find him outside, but no. Nothing.   
  
I'm kinda disappointed, actually. And I don't know why.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He comes back the next night, and the next, and the next. He always asks for the same thing, never says my name - either Schuldig or Johann - and never tries to question me about everything I thought he would.   
  
I start to relax after a while, welcoming the sight of him coming in at eight in the evening and start drinking solidly to the wee hours of the morning. It might not be good for his health, but after a while it's become almost comforting, to have him there.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There's still some part of me that doesn't believe it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

About a week after he first appeared at my workplace, Kudou gets up and walks out of the door, same as usual. When the bar closes in the wee hours of the morning and I finally get to leave after tossing out the last of the drunks and mopping up spillages (funny, he never spilled anything), he's waiting. "Schuldig," he says by way of greeting.   
  
"Johann," I correct him. "What do you want, Kudou?"   
  
He stares at me. "What the fuck do you think?"   
  
I can't help it. All the tension of our first encounters springs to the forefront of my mind, and. . . . He stayed in the bar all night, which for some stupid reason relaxed me before, and now he's bringing back all my previous unease and acting like I'm the one avoiding the question. "I don't know what I think," I snap. "I don't know what you think. I don't know what anyone else thinks. And I really don't give a fuck any more, so is there a point to this conversation or can I go home?"   
  
"What happened to. . . ." he waves his arm expansively. "You know. Estet. Schwarz."   
  
I snort. "You'd know more about that than I would. About all I know is that there is no more Schwarz."   
  
He peers at me suspiciously. "What the hell do you mean by that?"   
  
God, I don't feel like an interrogation. I ignore him, turning my back and walking towards the rickety little shithole I like to call home.   
  
He follows me, walking swiftly past me and stopping dead in front so that I have to stop if I don't want to either crash into him - and risk skin on skin contact - or walk out into the passing traffic. It's club area, so even though it's either very early or very late (depending on how you look at it) there's still a lot of cars about, being driven by very drunk and stupid people.   
  
He gives me a serious look, which makes him seem all of twelve. His face was made for that infuriating 'I know you want me' smirk.   
  
Come to think of it, so was mine.   
  
"What. Do. You. Mean. By. That," he says, as though speaking to an idiot.   
  
I glare at him, and manage to squeeze by without touching him.   
  
He starts following me again. "I'm not leaving until you tell me," he says. I ignore him.   
  
But he does follow me. All the way into the apartment building, right up to the fourth floor, right to the door of my little shithole. Key in the lock, I turn to him and say pointedly, "Aren't you going home?"   
  
Kudou gives me the serious look again. Funny, this time doesn't make him look so young - now it's more quietly determined. Nagi had that one sometimes. "I said I wasn't leaving until you told me what you meant," he says.   
  
Oh, for fuck's sake. . . . "Look, Kudou, I've been on my feet for the whole bloody night," I tell him. "What I want right now is to have the sanctity of my little shithole just to myself. What I do not want is you bugging me."   
  
"I don't give a fuck what you want," he growls at me.   
  
Okay, should've seen that one coming.   
  
I shrug, and open the door. "Suit yourself, then." I walk in, yanking my hair out of that irritating ponytail. I hear him enter after me, and continue with my nightly ritual, ignoring him. First my coat comes off, then my gloves. Sighing and rubbing my hands from where they were encased in hot leather all night, I make my way to what passes as a kitchen in this place - a couple of counters by a wall with a microwave and a fridge. Not exactly something stellar, but at least I can make instant coffee. I used to hate coffee. It stank. Now look at me.   
  
Kudou says nothing, just watches me as I grab a mug, tip in some cold water and coffee granules, then bung it in the microwave.   
  
Okay, okay, so that's not exactly the best way to make coffee. So sue me, I have no money.   
  
"Want some?" I say, back to him as I open the door as the microwave beeps. To be perfectly honest, I have no idea what prompted me to ask him if he wanted any, but done is done.   
  
"No, thank you," he says, impatience in his voice.   
  
Fuck you. Don't get pissy at me in my own shithole.   
  
I turn around, taking a gulp from the mug and trying not to look as though it didn't just burn off half my tongue. I think I'm failing.   
  
Kudou's suddenly in front of me, glaring down on me as though I committed a crime.   
  
. . .   
  
Okay, scratch that, as though I've really pissed him off.   
  
"Stop playing around, Schuldig," he growls out. "What the hell did you mean?"   
  
I put the mug down and stand up straighter, glaring at him in return. "I _mean_ it's none of your fucking business," I snarl at him. I try to move away from him - he's too close for comfort - and as I do so, he grabs my arm.   
  
Except his hand slips along my sleeve until he's clutching my bare fingers.   
  
The force of his mind hits me like a freight train. Dimly I hear myself cry out, but now-   
  
_anger hate anger despair depression Asuka anger Schuldig lies hate hate hate anger depression Neu Asuka love hate Schuldig anger anger anger_   
  
I pass out.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When I wake again, I find myself on my couch, my ratty old blanket covering me and I know Kudou's sitting on the floor opposite me, waiting for me to wake. I can feel him, feel his confusion, his slow-burning anger nothing more than a few cinders, feel the residual effects of drink and depression in his mind.   
  
Okay, I had no idea he was that depressed.   
  
But for fuck's sake . . . dammit, I have hardly any shields any more. I wince as thoughts from all those around me filter through into my mind.   
  
"Thanks a whole fucking lot, Kudou," I say flatly.   
  
I think I startled him . . . heh, what am I saying, I _know_ I startled him. I can feel it.   
  
He's hovering over me, not wanting to touch me in case I spaz out again. I force him to move away by sitting up, swinging my legs off the bed. I cradle my head in my hands, fingers digging into my skull in the hopes that _maybe_ it can shut out the noise.   
  
_. . . he's lying to me, I know he is, he's been seeing her. . . ._   
  
_. . . stupid bitch, won't give me a moment's peace. . . ._   
  
_. . . rent's due in a week, what do I do? . . ._   
  
"Get out of my head," I whisper.   
  
"What was that?"   
  
I'm feeling malicious . . . if he doesn't understand what I mean, I'll make him. "You knocked my shields down, moron," I tell him. "Congratulations, you've now made me about as fucking miserable as I can possibly be."   
  
I can feel more confusion seeping off him. It's almost tangible.   
  
I sigh, lift my head and glare at him. "A normal telepath can whack up shields to keep out everyone's thoughts in a moment," I tell him. "But me? No. It's the difference between building a wall around this room and a wall around China. It took me six fucking months to get my shields just _started_, but any skin on skin contact knocks them straight back down again. Excuse me, Kudou, but as fascinating as your mind is, I prefer being able to hear my _own_ thoughts." I turn away from him, determined to ignore him as I start fighting back the voices in my head. I still have some slight remnant of my shields left, so I focus on them, forcing them to build and bulge and make a barrier, however thin, between me and everyone else. It hurts to force my mind to do this, and sweat breaks out on my forehead. But any slight barrier between me and the world is better than nothing.   
  
When I've finished my slap-dash job of cutting myself off again, I open my eyes to find Kudou still there, staring at me. I open my mouth to ask why the fuck's he's still here, but shut it again. Heh, stupid. I already know the answer. He wants to leave, but he said he wasn't going until he got answers, and some misguided sense of stupidity is making him stick to it.   
  
I just want to be left alone.   
  
I sigh, leaning forward and rubbing the tension creases between my brows. "Crawford, Farfarello, and Nagi are dead," I tell him flatly. "I don't know how they died, or when. They were dead when I woke up after being in a coma for six months. I know because I had a permanent mental link to each of them - I couldn't sever it if I wanted to, which means they definitely couldn't. The only way it would have been cut was if their minds had ceased to exist, which means they died. It's just me, that's all that's left. I've been hiding from Estet ever since I woke up, and trying to make my head my own again. Happy now?"   
  
He doesn't say anything, but out of the corner of my eye I see him get up slowly, making his way to the door. The front door shuts with a click as he leaves, and suddenly I want to shout, to yell at him to come back even if he did knock my shields down, even if he never liked me, even if he made me remember that the people I was closest to calling friends are gone, just so I won't be alone any more.   
  
Silence echoes in the apartment.   
  
It's cold.   
  
** [End Part 1]**


	2. Part 2

Hullo! If you've already read this on Mediaminer.org, my apologies.

**Warnings**: language. LOTS of language. Also angst, Schuldig POV, future citrus, and Asuka. Yes, I consider Asuka a warning.  
**Pairings**: Schuldig/Yohji  
**Disclaimer**: I think I like the denial stage. Mine, alllll mine!  
**Archive**: The Temple of Lunacy, http://lunatic.deep-ice.com .  
**Summary**: Schuldig's POV as he copes with life after Schwarz and Estet. And then Yohji finds him, and things get interesting. Shitty summary, but the best I could come up with.

Counter fic for Karen from KanaDUH!

**Healing**  
by Anria  
**Part 2**

I call in sick to work the next day. My head is pounding, feeling like it's going to explode any minute. I spend most of the day focusing on rebuilding my shields, creating bricks and mortar for its foundations out of nothing. That sort of thing is bound to give you a headache.   
  
Really, a day isn't enough time. I need about a week to put the basis in place before it starts to strengthen on its own, without constant supervision. But I got yelled at enough for missing one day of work, if I miss any more I'll be out on my ass without a job and no money I'm willing to spend.   
  
Dammit, I should have asked Kudou if Estet was still around. Is still around.   
  
Oh well. Live and learn.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I make extra sure to have lots of layers on when I go into work. A high-necked, long sleeved top, gloves, jeans, boots, hair falling down around my face. The boss'll probably yell at me for that one, but screw him. I want as much between me and everyone else as possible.   
  
Kudou doesn't show up.   
  
It isn't until the boss bangs on the counter for last orders, announcing the bar will close in an hour that I realise I was waiting for him all along.   
  
My apartment seems lonelier than ever.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Eh, I have to face facts. He isn't coming back. He might be just as lonely as I am, but that doesn't mean he's coming back.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The days kinda blend together now. One long, unending stream of bored, bored, bored. And lonely. Mustn't forget the lonely.   
  
Not that I really could if I tried.   
  
Eh, anyway. I think I've pretty much resigned myself to spending the rest of my life working at this goddamn bar, handing drinks and change to men and women whose only purpose in life is to kill their liver, and via that themselves.   
  
The door to the bar opens, and I get blasted with a shock of bloody freezing cold air. Looks like the weather finally caught up with the rest of the country and decided it was winter - which means I now freeze my ass off every night because my little shithole doesn't have central heating worth anything.   
  
Joy. A new customer.   
  
Feh, that bloody bar stool . . . okay, so the creak lets me know when I actually have to start work again, but that doesn't mean it's not annoying.   
  
I make my way over to the stool, leaning down to shove a glass away under the counter. "What's your poison?" I ask, and look up.   
  
Woah, déjà vu.   
  
Kudou looks a little less dead this time, though.   
  
For a moment, we just stare at each other. I can't read his face - I've discovered I'm beyond crap at telling what people's intentions are without hearing their thoughts. I can't read his expression. . . .   
  
What the hell is he doing here?   
  
I hold his gaze for a moment more, then say, "What do you want to drink?"   
  
"A shot," he says without missing a beat.   
  
"Of what?" Oookay, we're rhyming here. This can't be good.   
  
"Anything."   
  
So I get his bloody shot. He tosses it back with practised ease and I tell him how much it just cost him. He hands over the cash like he was already prepared - fuck off, Kudou, you're not Crawford - and . . . gets up and walks to the door? What the fuck?   
  
I blink after him for a moment, then shake myself and move to the register to pay in his cash.   
  
And it's only then that I notice the normal slip of paper among the more valuable bits of tree guts.   
  
Ignoring everyone for a moment, I lean back and open the note. Kudou's written inside in butchered English; his handwriting is appalling. But right now I couldn't care less.   
  
_I'm sorry._   
  
Sorry? What the fuck is he sorry for? For helping my shields take a temporary holiday?   
  
. . . why the fuck would he be sorry about it? Why would he apologise to me?   
  
The rest of the night passes in a dazed blur. I short-change one guy twice in a row and undercharge another one, and that's all I'm certain about. No matter how many times I try to focus, my mind keeps returning to Kudou's note.   
  
When the bar closes, I get yelled at for a couple of minutes by the boss before he realises that I am truly out of it and tells me to go home, disgusted. I grab my coat and charge out into the blisteringly cold night, and stop.   
  
Kudou's waiting for me outside, just like he did the first night he paid any attention to me outside the bar. Except that last time, he looked righteously pissed, and now he's . . . nervous? Am I reading this right?   
  
Fuck, I can't be.   
  
I pull on my coat and wait for him to speak. He opens his mouth a couple of times, breath steaming in the cold air, but closes it again when nothing comes out.   
  
Open, close, open, close. . . .   
  
Okay, this is getting ridiculous.   
  
"Kudou, what the fuck do you want?"   
  
He does his fish imitation again for a couple of seconds, then looks away. "I. . . ." He shivers suddenly, and says plaintively, "Can we do this somewhere less cold?"   
  
I eye him suspiciously for a moment, then say, "Sure. Not my shithole, though - that place isn't heated worth fuck."   
  
He almost _winces_ at that, would you believe it. Heh, I think little Kudou might not like my swearing. Couldn't be sympathy for the cold . . . so since when did he get so sensitive about language?   
  
Then he sighs, and his shoulders slump. "Fine, follow me."   
  
We walk along for a while, freezing our asses off, before it occurs to be that he had a car last time I . . . okay, not the _last_ last time, but the one before that. Before he came to the bar. There, that one works . . . the last time I met him before he showed up at the bar, he had a car. If that trumped-up buggy could be called a car. . . .   
  
"Hey, Kudou, did you walk here?"   
  
He glances back at me, but quickly turns his head away, watching where he walks. There's a little more in that gesture than just being careful of patches of ice on the pavement. "Yeah," he says quietly, and keeps walking.   
  
Right. Now I want to know why the hell he walked, but . . . the silence is awkward enough. Conversation would be worse.   
  
Hey, Brad, look at me now. I've actually learned when to shut my mouth.   
  
_Look, a flying pig._   
  
The thought is so sudden and sharp that I trip slightly, my head whipping to the side as though I expect to find him there, staring down at me with that smug look on his face, brown eyes cold behind clear glasses. I shut my eyes, and for a second I can almost pretend that he's standing beside me. That Nagi is snickering quietly behind him, a corner of Farf's mouth quirking upwards as he stands beside me.   
  
It's moments like these that I miss them the most. When I can almost hear them, almost see them, almost feel them.   
  
Almost.   
  
"Schuldig?"   
  
I jump, opening my eyes to see that Kudou has stopped, looking back at me. "What?" I snap at him, surly that he ruined a moment in which I could pretend.   
  
"Are you . . . are you coming?" he says hesitantly.   
  
I would swear that he started to say something else, but at this particularly point in time I really don't care what it was. A part of me wants to yell at him, to make him go away and leave me alone so I can stay here and remember, and pretend. It gets stronger by the minute, but stronger still is the voice that tells me he's the real one, the only link I have left to my old life. And that he's just as lonely as I am, because maybe I'm the only link left to his old life, too.   
  
I sigh, and look across the street, as though if I stare long enough Crawford will appear with Farf and Nagi in tow, and they'll look over at me, and I'll smile and join them and this time I won't be so stupid as to ignore what I have while I have it.   
  
"Yeah," I say quietly. "I'm coming."   
  
We walk on for a while more before Kudou stops, turning into a large apartment building. Staring up at it, I see that it is one of the newer, pricey ones - a lot of space, good quality everything. I could've had one of these if I wasn't so scared that Estet could track my spending from the old accounts.   
  
He leads me up to the top floor. Kritiker must've paid him better than I thought if he can afford a penthouse in one of these apartment complexes.   
  
The inside of the apartment is clean, warm, and bare. He doesn't seem to have more than the bare necessities around - well, unless you count the state-of-the-art sound and video system. And the fact that his couch is shiny new and top-quality leather. And someone did a professional job of decorating. And that what I can see of the kitchen through the doorway is shiny, new stainless steel.   
  
To sum it up, his apartment is much nicer than my shithole. Warmer, too. But it lacks something mine has - a few pieces of dirty clothes tossed here and there, an unwashed mug on a table. Little things that make it looked lived-in, not like a showroom.   
  
I wonder what that's supposed to tell me about his state of mind. A psychiatrist could get a lot of it, but so sue me, my intimacy with the inner workings of people's minds was usually on a more personal basis, y'know?   
  
Kudou hangs his coat on a peg and slips his shoes off, wandering into the apartment. He doesn't look back at me, but I get this feeling that he wants to, very badly. Probably because in his position, I would've looked back.   
  
I slip off my shoes and coat, following his example, and pad barefoot into the living room. If such an un-lived-in room could be called that. I sit on the larger of the two sofas, curling one leg up under me. I always liked sitting like that, I don't know why. Certainly doesn't make for getting up quickly, and I have to wonder why I do that almost unconsciously. If I really didn't trust Kudou, at least on some level, I'd probably have kept my coat and shoes, too.   
  
"Do you want something to drink?"   
  
I blink at him. He's trying to hide it, but he's nervous - and if _I_ can notice he's nervous without my talent to help me, then he's really got a rat in his pants about something. But he's making a civilised gesture, so I nod.   
  
He scurries into the kitchen - I'm not kidding, he _scurries_ - and returns with a bottle of vodka and two glasses. He gives me an embarrassed look. "Sorry, it's all I have."   
  
"That's okay," I say, and silence falls between the two of us again as he pours the drinks. I wait for him to take a sip of his before drinking any of mine.   
  
We sit in silence for a while. I stare at my glass, but I can feel his eyes burning into me. I look up, and he turns away rapidly, a light blush staining his cheeks. He stares fixedly at the opposite wall, not saying anything.   
  
I lower my head again, and after a moment I feel his gaze on me again. Lifting my head, he looks away quickly once again. Shit, I'm using the word again too often. Better stop.   
  
We repeat the process three, maybe four times. As amusing as it is, the silence grows more and more strained.   
  
Damn, this is beyond awkward.   
  
I sigh and lean forward, placing my glass on the coffee table in front of me. "Look, Kudou," I say tiredly. "You brought me here to say something, so say it already. Then I can go home and get some fucking sleep."   
  
Yohji blinks, then gives me a rueful smile, downing the rest of his glass in one gulp. Maybe it should say something about the both of us that he offered vodka in a normal wine glass, and I didn't blink when I took it.   
  
He places his glass down, and then stands. What's that psychobabble bullshit about wanting to be taller than someone you have to face down? Feeling of superiority, dominance, some kind of crap like that. Heh, maybe there is some truth in it after all considering how Kudou's acting.   
  
"I wanted to say I'm sorry," he bursts out suddenly, and I focus on his face. Yes, dumbass, you said that already. "I - I didn't know that me touching you would have such an effect. And I know it hurt you, so I'm sorry."   
  
He stares out of the window behind me, steadfastly refusing to look anywhere near my face. Yay. Great. Get on with it, Kudou, because if that's all you had to say I'm going to rip you a new asshole.   
  
"Um. . . ." he trails off, then starts again. "I'm not sure how to say this without you going for my throat."   
  
"You're inspiring real confidence here."   
  
I don't think he was expecting me to reply to that, as his head jerks down and he looks me full in the face for the first time since we got into his apartment. He looks away again just as quickly, fidgeting slightly. "I. . . ." he trails off again, then starts muttering to himself, "Why the fuck am I having such trouble with this? I can smooth-talk any woman I come across, so why the hell do I balk at telling an old enemy that I don't want to fight because we're both all that's left of those times and I know he's just as fucking miserable as I am. . . ."   
  
"How do you know that?" I say sharply. I have a nasty suspicion growing in my mind.   
  
Yohji jumps again, and blushes again. There's that word. . . . "Uh . . . this is the part I don't know how to say without you going for my throat."   
  
"Just say it already," I say tiredly. "Fuck it, Kudou, I wanna go home so I can sleep."   
  
"Okay. Um. . . ."   
  
I. Am.   
  
"You know when I touched you at your apartment?"   
  
Going.   
  
"Well, the thing is. . . . You see, the thing is. . . ."   
  
To.   
  
"You read my mind, right? You found out everything?"   
  
Kill.   
  
"It . . . kinda went both ways."   
  
Him. Using every skill I . . . what?   
  
"What?"   
  
Kudou stares at some point past my head again. "You heard me."   
  
I stare at him in complete disbelief, before groaning and burying my head in my hands. "That's all I bloody well need," I mutter. "Any other nasty surprises?"   
  
"Well, I thought that maybe. . . . Maybe. . . ."   
  
"Kudou, if you don't stop hedging I'm going to reach down your throat and pull out your intestines, tie them to a rock and kick you off the edge of a cliff."   
  
Even not looking directly at him, I see him wince at that. He sighs and slumps down in the armchair suddenly, bringing his leg and one of his slender, long fingered hands into my line of sight. "Look," he says, and his voice is much more firm than it was before. "We both know we're both lonely. And miserable. And depressed out of our heads. I'm also your only link to Schwarz, and you're my only link to Weiss, as they both were before. You, Aya and Manx are the only people left alive who know shit about me and what I used to do, and neither of those two give a flying fuck. I'm the only one left alive who knows shit about you. What I'm trying to say is, can we at least try to be . . . I dunno . . . friends? Or at least drinking buddies, because I'm sick and tired of being alone, and I think you are too."   
  
He falls silent, and even flopped motionless manages to give off a kind of tense expectancy. I remain still, head in my hands.   
  
Well, he hit the nail on the head with that one, didn't he. Fact is, I know we're both miserable, and what's the saying? Misery loves company.   
  
I sigh again and lean into the sofa, tipping my head to lie back on the soft cushions of the couch., arm stretched out beside me on the armrest. I close my eyes.   
  
Fact is, even if this is the best way to stop being lonely, some part of me doesn't want to do it. Because to take up Kudou's offer will mean finally admitting to myself that they're gone, completely and utterly. I'll be letting go of one link to grab onto another one, a weaker one since Kudou didn't know the rest of Schwarz like I did.   
  
But life goes on, and the dead don't. And I'm alive . . . but Crawford, Nagi and Farf aren't.   
  
I guess . . . it's time to let go.   
  
I raise my head and lean forwards, grabbing my glass from the table. Kudou watches me with wary eyes.   
  
I smile, faintly, a mockery of my old smirk. "Fill her up."

**[End Part 2]**

Any good?


	3. Part 3

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed! ::huggles:: You're all wonderful, wonderful people!

**Warnings**: language, some angst, some humour  
**Pairings**: Schuldig/Yohji (I'm getting there, okay?)  
**Summary**: Schuldig's POV as he copes with life after Schwarz and Estet. And then Yohji finds him, and things get interesting.  
**Archive**: my site, The Temple of Lunacy http://lunatic.deep-ice.com   
**Disclaimer**: I like denial. They're all mine.

**Healing**  
by Anria  
**Part 3**

Kudou meets me outside the bar on a Tuesday night, the only one of the week I get off. This is the first time we've tried to get together since we talked at his apartment - well, okay, so we didn't really _talk_ much then. More like sat around and drank vodka like it was water.   
  
Y'know, I've never really understood that phrase. I never liked drinking water - too flavourless - so how can I be drinking something like water when I'd much rather drink something like vodka?   
  
Anyway, Kudou decided he was going to pick where we go tonight. Well, that's fine and dandy with me, I don't feel like thinking much right now.   
  
We trudge along the street, not speaking much. I guess walking around outside in the cold doesn't put either one of us in the mood for conversation, which is fine by me. A lot of things seem to be fine by me right now, I wonder why I'm in such a good mood?   
  
I can't help but be a little surprised when Kudou walks straight past all the bars and into a more pleasant area of town. I'd have thought he'd decide on a bar to go to, seeing as we're both about as alcoholic as you can get and not have your liver give up completely on trying to deal and instead focus its attentions on getting the hell out of there, now. But apparently not.   
  
Eventually, he leads me into a quiet, cosy place, soft music playing on the stereo and not a hint of alcohol in sight. "I figured you might be sick of bars, seeing as how you're in one every other night of the week," Kudou says softly, taking off his coat and gloves. "And I found this all-night café, so I figured it'd be a good place to come - feed the caffeine addiction instead of any of the alcohol one."   
  
I grin at him. I must be feeling agreeable, because what he says makes sense.   
  
We find a small coffee table with two much larger leather armchairs on either side of it, and sit down. Kudou orders a mocha; me, a cappuccino.   
  
I sit and relax for a moment, letting the warmth of the café seep into my frozen extremities. No, not those extremities, just fingers and toes.   
  
When the coffees arrive, Kudou leans forward to stir his, taking a sip. "So," he says.   
  
"So," I agree. This is almost amusing.   
  
He leans back, cradling the hot cup in between his hands. Hmm, that looks like a good idea - I think I'll copy it.   
  
He cocks his head and looks at me curiously. "If you don't mind me asking, how did they die?" he says, an edge of caution in his voice.   
  
Well, if I was him, I would've asked that with caution too. I expect myself to feel angry in some way that he should have the audacity to bring that up, but. . . . Nothing comes. Well, if the emotional responses that even I don't understand are fine with it, then what the hell. I shrug, looking away. "I don't really know," I say. "I was in a coma for six months, and when I came out of it, they were dead. I don't even know if any of them made it out of the sea. Or if they died at hospital. Or if they were perfectly fine and just got picked off by whatever the hell's left of Estet." The words are said without bitterness, but they stir some unfamiliar emotion in me and I take a big gulp of my cappuccino, ignoring the way it burns down my throat. Funny how whenever I meet Kudou with coffee, I always seem to burn my mouth. I look back at him. "You?"   
  
Yohji grimaces. "Aya came out fine. Ken and Omi . . . weren't so lucky. Ken was dead when they found him washed up on the beach, and Omi died during surgery." He scowls down at his coffee. "Somehow it doesn't seem right that I only had a broken leg to show for it. Not when they died."   
  
I nod, for some reason that I'm sure makes sense to my subconscious. Like why I'm being nice. Oh, wait, that's because I'm lonely. "Where's Ran now?" I don't know why they all had such trouble learning to call him Ran. Hell, I've been calling him it for years.   
  
Yohji snorts. "Somewhere in Hokkaido. He went off up there after Aya-chan woke up, decided it was better for them to have a fresh start in a new place. Haven't heard from him since."   
  
I shrug. "He always struck me as the anti-social type. Kinda like Nagi in a way, maybe a bit like Brad."   
  
"Nagi?" Kudou asks curiously.   
  
I can't help but half-smile, a little wistful. The image of Nagi staring at the computer screen as though in a trance floats before my eyes, bringing with it a sense of nostalgia. "He spent his life on the internet. When he wasn't on it for pleasure, Brad made him do work. Sometimes I wished I could drag him off that bloody machine and feed him until he actually gained some weight. He spent so long on it he kept forgetting mealtimes."   
  
Kudou makes this strange noise which is half snort, half laugh. "Sounds like Omi," he says. "Ken mothered him no end - had to, otherwise the kid would've been fainting all over the place from lack of food. Although it did encourage Omi to get off the computer - Ken couldn't cook worth shit, and Omi was too polite to turn down the offers of food, so in the end he'd get up off the machine and make some proper food just so he wouldn't have to eat Ken's any more."   
  
I snicker, picturing it in my head. "Y'know, Ken cooking makes a funny mental image."   
  
Yohji grins. "It made a funny real life image, too," he says. "He had the stupidest apron - I think it was a joke Christmas present one year."   
  
I raise my eyebrows at him. "He wore an apron? What did it say, 'Kiss the Cook'?"   
  
Yohji shakes his head. "Nope," he replies cheerfully. "It was more of the frilly housewife apron. Just as well he didn't realise he could just have used the apron from the flowershop, the pictures made for great blackmail material."   
  
I grin, imagining it. "Hey, I wonder what Farfie would have looked like in an apron," I muse.   
  
"_Farfie_?"   
  
"What, it'd be amusing at least. . . ."   
  
Yohji shakes his head, taking another sip from his mocha. "No, I mean the name. You called him _Farfie_?"   
  
I grin at the cappuccino. "Pissed the hell out of him."   
  
Yohji laughs, and I start. I never expected anyone to find amusement in that - the reason I did things to piss people off was absent-minded malice, nothing more. It had been going on so long I did it without thinking, and it had long since lost meaning to me. Pissing people off was a habit, telling them not to get too close or too emotionally involved - that way, if I stayed with them for a long time their emotions concerning me would never reach the point of such volume it hurt. However, looking at it from Yohji's point of view, I can see why he finds it amusing. Hell, it would amuse me if I didn't know the reason behind wanting to piss people off.   
  
I guess in reality that's the reason why I'm so bad at socialising. As a telepath I always wanted people as far away from me as possible - or preferably, dead - so when I finally got the point that I was able to keep my 'talent' blocked up behind strong shields, my idea of socialising was firmly cemented as "push people away, and keep them away."   
  
No wonder I was so lonely.   
  
"I did the same kinda thing," Yohji says, placing his mug on the table and relaxing back into the chair. It was fascinating to watch; it looked like he unwound every muscle one by one, slowly sinking back into the chair and reforming them to meet the chair's specifications. Think of a cat curling up on a big, soft seat - first it stretches, then it settles, then the faint lines of tension melt away and the cat ends up almost seeming part of the upholstery. Yohji did the same thing, but on a scale ten times as big.   
  
"I called Omi Omittchi," he says, eyes drooping lazily. "And Ken was Kenken. He always got pissy about that one, although Omi hated it more when I called him kid."   
  
"What about Ran?" I ask.   
  
Yohji frowns. "I'm not sure I ever came up with one for him that stuck," he muses. "I mean, I called him Ayan a couple of times after I found out his real name, but . . . he never seemed to care, so in the end I gave up." He shakes his head, dislodging the uncomfortable memories - Aya had abandoned him (all that was left of Weiss) for his sister, after all. A reminiscent smile curves his lips. "Omi and Ken conspired to find a nickname for me, so I ended up being Yotan."   
  
I stare into my coffee. "I'm not sure I have that many good memories of Schwarz," I say slowly after a moment. I look up to see his vibrant green eyes regarding me curiously. "We . . . were never anything more than a team," I tell him, trying to work it out myself as I go along. "There were never any real feelings there at all. Unlike you. Unlike Weiss."   
  
Yohji cocks his head to the side, peering at me over the rim of his sunglasses. Why he feels the need to wear sunglasses in the middle of the night in a darkened café I don't know - but then I'm hardly one to talk, seeing as one of the first things I did when I got out of the hospital was find a replacement for my old bandanna and sunglasses. They're in their usual position now, both resting across my forehead.   
  
"I think there was more there than you're admitting to yourself," Yohji tells me.   
  
I blink at him. "So what are you now, my psychoanalyst?" I snort. "I think the telepath knows his own mind."   
  
"Or is so caught up in others' he never had a chance to," Kudou says without missing a beat.   
  
I scowl at him. "Maybe there were some things I didn't want to think about, Kudou. And maybe I'm not the only one."   
  
Yohji nods placidly - his calm reaction to everything is really beginning to piss me off. "All I'm saying is that from what you've said, you cared more about them than you ever realised. Don't get angry with me for pointing out the truth."   
  
I know he's right, even though I don't want to admit that to him.   
  
I decide it's time to change the subject. I put my coffee mug down on the table with a nice satisfying thunk, then sit back and say, "What type of music do you like?"   
  
Kudou looks startled. "What?"   
  
"What type of music do you like?"   
  
"I thought we were talking about old times," Yohji says, looking at me warily.   
  
I toss my hair over my shoulder and smirk at him. "Yeah, we _were_. Old times are old times, let's talk about the now."   
  
Yohji snorts, leaning forwards to put his cappuccino on the table next to mine. "You just don't want to answer the question."   
  
"What question?"   
  
"The question I asked just now."   
  
"You didn't ask a question."   
  
"I implied one."   
  
"Implying is not asking, Yohji."   
  
"Jazz."   
  
"What?" I blink, trying to work out how 'jazz' is a response to my statement.   
  
Yohji smirks at me, the bastard. "I like jazz. The mellow kind. And the slow kind of rock and metal. Sometimes dance or anything with a strong beat is all that will cut it, though."   
  
I blink again, slowly reworking the past conversation in my mind. A smirk spreads over my lips as I figure out how he unbalanced me. "What about normal metal? The kind that gets in your blood and starts pumping."   
  
He shrugs one shoulder. "It's okay, I guess."   
  
"Only _okay_? You haven't heard the right kind of metal."   
  
"Screaming guitars? Vocals that sound like the singer's voice box is puking? Drums with no sense of rhythm or beat at all?" Yohji snorts. "Yeah, _that's_ great music, all right."   
  
I smirk at him. "Like I said, you haven't heard the _right_ kind of metal music."   
  
He gives me a look over the top of his sunglasses. "Then what _is_ the 'right kind of metal music', pray tell?"   
  
I lean back. "Rammstein, obviously."   
  
"Just Rammstein? And what's wrong with the music _I_ like?"   
  
"Rammstein are the gods of music. No one compares to them. Besides that," I spread my hands, "I never said anything was wrong with the kind of music you like."   
  
"Yes you did."   
  
"No, I did not."   
  
"You implied it." A small smile dances around his lips.   
  
"Implying is not the same as saying," I smirk.   
  
"You're the master of implication."   
  
I wag a finger at him. "I never tell a lie."   
  
The smile grows every so slightly wider. "But implying is almost as good as saying."   
  
"Not the same thing."   
  
"Face it, Schuldig, you manage to lie without ever actually saying anything but the truth."   
  
"And I'm damn proud of it."   
  
Yohji suddenly bursts out laughing. I start for the second time, not expecting that any more than I did the first time. I fight it as much as I can, but my smirk gradually wavers into a grin.   
  
He gradually calms down, chuckling slightly. "I think we have more in common than either of us realised, Schu," he says, smiling at me.   
  
I start to smile back - then realise what he just said. I scowl at him instead. "_Schu_?!?"   
  
His laughter echoes into the night.   
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~   
  
We continue to meet, initially every Tuesday night. It's strange to finally meet someone I can actually _talk_ to, after all these years, someone who will listen to what I say as thought it actually has some weight, and then respond. And he laughs when I crack a joke. Actually _laughs_ - the most I got before was Farf grinning and Nagi smirking at me. I knew it was a good joke if Crawford told me to shut up.   
  
Slowly we start to meet more regularly. Kudou comes to the bar, not to drink his liver to death, but to talk to me. The boss scowls about it, but I don't think he actually minds all that much - he would have said something, otherwise. And I'd have ignored him, but hey, it's what I do. Though it seems as long as keep our talk low, since the bar is never incredibly busy, we can chat for as long as we like.   
  
It's . . . nice. I don't think I've ever had a relationship like this before, at least not as far as I can remember. I've never really had what a normal person would call "friends", and I liked it that way. Now, I find myself thinking about Kudou much more than is normal for me, and not blinking an eyelash. It's strangely . . . nice.   
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~   
  
We arrange to meet one night a couple of months after we first went to the café. Kudou's a bit late, and, lucky me, it's pouring with rain.   
  
I huddle deeper into the folds of my coat, trying to ignore the wet trickle of rain running from my hair down the back of my neck. Kudou had better fucking get here in a hurry, because I'm beginning to feel like a drowned kitten and that's _not_ a pleasant sensation.   
  
It passes nine, and he hasn't come. Ten goes in much the same direction as nine. It's almost twelve before I get _really_ pissed off. I was only _mildly_ pissed off before, now I'm ready to spit nails. I feel like a jilted date.   
  
I make up my mind, and begin stalking through the streets towards Kudou's apartment. I'm trying to steadfastly ignore the part of my mind that keeps niggling at me, telling me that there could have been an accident, he could be hurt, which would be why he didn't show up, and - oh, screw it, that just makes me madder. If he had a fucking accident, I would expect him to damn well tell me! Not because I'd be worried or anything, but because it would mean I didn't have to stand out in the fucking freezing cold rain for a few hours waiting for a moron who wasn't going to turn up! It's _definitely_ not worry at all, no way.   
  
I climb up the stairs of Kudou's apartment building, dripping water as I go, and pound on his door. "Kudou!" I bellow. "You better fucking me unconscious or dead, because if you're not when I get through with you-"   
  
"Door's open," the muffled voice drifts through the wood.   
  
Oh, the door's open, is it? I stare dumbfounded at the wood for a moment, a stab of painfully familiar emotion going through me. But it's not relief. Definitely not. Sodding bastard decided he didn't want to go out in the rain, is that it? Dammit, I'm going to give him a fucking piece of my mind-   
  
I slam open the door and stalk into the apartment, not bothering to close it behind me. "Kudou!" I yell, making my way to the living room. "Where the hell are you, you ungrateful piece of shit-"   
  
"And good evening to you too," Yohji says to me as I enter the room. "I take it you didn't get my message?"   
  
"What fucking message?" I yell. "I don't have a fucking answering machine! And unlike you, some people actually _work_ in this city, and that means they have to fucking _sleep_ during the day-"   
  
Hey, I think I'm actually enjoying this.   
  
"Could you shut the door, please? You're letting in a draft." The fucking bastard actually _smirks_ at me.   
  
It's stupid, and immature, and childish, but I get the sudden urge to stick my tongue out at him.   
  
I ignore it, and shut the door instead. Walking back into the living room, I deflate a little, the force of my anger falling away in the face of his blaze responses. "So why didn't you turn up?" I ask, standing a little stupidly in front of him with my coat dripping water onto the carpet.   
  
Kudou points down his leg to his ankle, which, I suddenly notice is propped up on the sofa, swathed in thick white cloth. "Sprain," he says. "I tried calling you to tell you, but you didn't pick up. I left a message with your boss at the bar."   
  
I sigh, and unceremoniously drop my coat in a wet crumple on the floor, dropping myself into a chair. "Idiot, I don't work on Tuesdays," I say.   
  
Yohji shrugs. "I know, but you weren't answering your phone," he says, as though that explains everything.   
  
"So, what now?"   
  
Yohji picks up a remote from beside him on the sofa and waves towards the TV with it. "There're a couple of films on tonight," he says. "We could watch those."   
  
I make a face. "Films, not really my thing unless they meet specific requirements."   
  
"Like what?"   
  
"Blood, violence, sex, an interesting main character. . . ." I tick them off on my fingers. "That's pretty much it."   
  
"Gangster movies, then."   
  
I stare at him. "Gangster movies are not something most people would pick first from that list, Kudou."   
  
He grins. "I take it no gangster movies, then."   
  
I shake my head. "Nope."   
  
"Horror? Action?"   
  
"Action never has an interesting main character, and horror films are just funny."   
  
"Hey, I like horror films."   
  
"And action?"   
  
"No . . . well, some of them."   
  
"See? You have no taste."   
  
Kudou throws the remote at me, grinning. "Go get me something to drink."   
  
I raise my eyebrow at him. "What do I look like, a nursemaid?"   
  
Yohji glares at me. It doesn't quite work, since he's trying not to grin at the same time. "Just go get the bloody drinks, Schu."   
  
I get to my feet, heading for the kitchen. "And don't fucking call me Schu!"   
  
He laughs at me again.   
  
Asshole.   
  
** [End Part 3]**

Any good?


	4. Part 4

::sighs:: This part would've been out a couple of days ago, except that an RSI flare-up in my wrist means I'm stuck typing much slower than usual. (It's either that or break out the painkillers, which I _refuse_ to do.) Many, many thanks to everyone who reviewed! I've got a couple of comments in response to some of the reviews, other than big huggles which are dispensed to all the wonderful people who said they wanted more of this fic. ^_^

**random person:** actually, I put a lot of thought behind picking Rammstein as a band Schuldig would like. I did read the translations of the lyrics ages ago - it's part of the reason I like them so much, and also why I think Schuldig would like them. He's a German in Japan, which I would imagine means some part of him feels alien so he'd want something to make him feel more at home in a strange land - but, being Schuldig, he wouldn't be patriotic in any sense of the term. Rammstein fits the bill perfectly - they sing in German, but they'd hardly appeal to the majority of Germans. ^_^  
**Li:** ::wince:: Yes, I know I haven't updated in 4, nearly 5 months. Well, we have stronger bits of Schu+Yohji in this part, so I hope that lets me off the hook a little. . . . The reason for not updating is my laziness, exams, my laziness, joint problems, my laziness, a social life, and my laziness. . Sorry!

I'm sure there were more people than that I wanted to leave comments for, but FF.N is being a bugger and won't let me onto the reviews page to check. So, sorry! Please know that all your comments are most appreciated (and ego-fattening)! ^_^

**Warnings**: language, some angst, some humour, some Schuldig OOC in this part (heh, he goes genki ^_^), but it's with good reason!  
**Pairings**: Schuldig/Yohji (I'm getting there, okay?)  
**Summary**: Schuldig's POV as he copes with life after Schwarz and Estet. And then Yohji finds him, and things get interesting.  
**Archive**: my site, The Temple of Lunacy http:// lunatic.deep-ice.com  
**Disclaimer**: I like denial. They're all mine.

As always, dedicated to Karen from KanaDUH. ^_^ And to the parasite, or squirmy, or whatever. :P

**Healing**  
by Anria  
**Part 4**

The next morning I wake to a feeling of unusual warmth.   
  
Moving a little closer to the source of this warmth - _not_ snuggling, I do _not_ snuggle - I drowsily realise that I can't be in my little shithole, because that's never warm in the fucking morning. Must've fallen asleep on the couch at Kudou's place.   
  
That just proves to be far too much for my not-awake mind to cope with, and I mentally shrug my shoulders, loosening my hold on the rational thought I sometimes employ when awake. I burrow deeper down into the source of the warmth, shifting until I get into a comfortable position where our hips aren't knocking together and my shoulder isn't digging into his chest. In response to my wriggling, his arm twitches, fingers brushing my wrist-   
  
Oh. Fuck.   
  
My eyes shoot open, and I stare at the ceiling for a long, shocked minute. Yohji has a nice ceiling, I think semi-hysterically. Someone had painted it, not wallpapered it, the paint swirled into circles and waves while it was still wet to create an interesting pattern to be staring up at.   
  
Yohji sighs a little in his sleep and shifts, his fingers sliding along the back of my hand.   
  
I stiffen, squinting my eyes shut against the horrible, intense pain that I know is going to come any second now-   
  
Any second now. . . .   
  
Feeling more than a little silly, I open one eye and peer down the length of my body. Yup, Kudou's _bare_ fingers are quite definitely resting on my _bare_ skin - and I don't feel a thing.   
  
. . . okay, Schuldig, hyperventilating is a bad thing.   
  
_Nothing's happening. Why the _fuck_ is nothing happening?_   
  
Since contact with Yohji obviously isn't going to harm me in any way right now, I relax into his body, relishing the warmth of the first human body-on-body and skin-on-skin contact I've had in months. I don't know how long this lull is going to last, so I'm going to take full advantage of it while I try to figure out what the fuck is going on.   
  
My thoughts are driven far away from coherence by the simple sensation of _him_, though. I can't think of anything but how this feels - it's been so long. . . .   
  
So long since I've touched anyone.   
  
His chest rises and falls in time with his breathing, moving gently against my back. I don't think I've ever slept with someone behind me before, and the sensation is a little unusual. One of his arms is thrown casually over my stomach, the tips of his fingers resting lightly on the fabric of my shirt. That one simple touch seems to burn into me, making me hyperaware of everywhere our bodies touch.   
  
His breath stirs the hair on my neck, his head tucked down so his face is pressed into my hair. He's only a couple of inches taller than me, so that's got to be straining his neck. But I don't want him to move. I don't want to disturb this strange peace that lies over us, and not just because I might lose the fragile connection that keeps his mind from blasting into mine. He's warm, and despite the lack of padding on his bones he's soft, and the way he's curled up around me with his chest pressed to my back and his arms cradling me like I mean something - I don't want to lose that. I shut my eyes and melt into him, and allow myself to pretend for a little while that I'm someone else and he's someone else and we're somewhere far, far away from here, and-   
  
-and there's an ache in my chest that tells me I really don't want to be far away from here. I press back in Yohji more firmly, wishing that his arms would slip around me and hold me to him so I could feel like this feeling of safety was meant for me. And being disgusted with myself for it - since when do I need anybody? Since when do I need to feel 'safe'? It's got to be a hold-over from the alcohol I drank last night. Got to be.   
  
But the ache in my chest won't go away.   
  
Yohji twists and stirs, his muscles tensing as he stretches, shattering the fragile illusion I built up around the two of us. I sit up like a shot, suddenly terrified that he'll wake up and feel me relaxed against him and - and - and I don't know, okay! But whatever it is my subconscious is feeling fit not to share with me, it scares the shit out of me.   
  
He yawns widely and blinks his eyes open, seeing me sitting beside him. He smiles faintly before closing his eyes again, apparently content to fall straight back asleep.   
  
Fuck that. If I'm gonna be awake and panicking, Kudou, so are you.   
  
His fingers are still resting on my hand, so I carefully twist my wrist to capture the long, slender digits in mine, in essence holding hands with him. "Kudou, wake up," I command him.   
  
"What for?" he murmurs, fingers twitching in my grip. A slight frown creases between his brows. "Doesn't feel like leather. You got new gloves?" he asks drowsily.   
  
"I'm not wearing gloves."   
  
Yohji cracks one eye open, scowling at me. "Don't be bloody ridiculous, Schu," he says, and shuts his eye again.   
  
Oh, that does it.   
  
I snarl and grab a handful of his hair, yanking his head up and shoving our conjoined hands in front of him. "OW! Schu, what the fuck-" he abruptly cuts off, staring at what I've shoved into his line of vision.   
  
I let go of his hair, anger draining from me suddenly. His head thuds back onto the couch, his eyes staring at where my _bare_ hand is clutching his. Slowly, he looks from that to me, and I can see the shock, amazement, and question written all over his face.   
  
"I don't fucking know," I say. "I woke up, and we were touching. I don't know why. . . ." I trail off. I don't know why my head - _our_ heads - haven't exploded with pain yet. I don't know why my shields are still up. I don't know anything.   
  
Kudou wets his lips nervously. I stare at the flickering tip of his tongue, suddenly unable to tear my eyes away. I find myself wondering if this strange lull will hold out long enough for me to kiss him, to find out if his mouth tastes as sweet as I think it does. I wonder if he would reciprocate, or shove me away.   
  
"Do you . . . are your shields still up?" Yohji asks nervously.   
  
Without looking at him, I nod.   
  
His fingers close around mine, and I see him sit up out of the corner of my eye.   
  
"Schuldig."   
  
His voice is firmer now, commanding. I look at him without thinking about it - sodding Crawford, drilling these bloody responses into me - and he looks serious, but not anywhere near as nervous as before.   
  
"This is probably a really stupid question, but . . . are you still a telepath? Do you still have your talent?"   
  
My brows snap together and I scowl at him. "You're right, Kudou, that is a bloody stupid question," I say.   
  
He grins at me, unrepentant. "Just checking," he says merrily, and I can feel the rising tide of joy in him, and I start to grin back-   
  
Wait.   
  
Wait just one frickin' minute.   
  
I can _feel_ him? I can hear his _thoughts_?   
  
When the hell did that happen?   
  
I suddenly realise I could feel his thoughts all along. The realisation terrifies me, because now I stop to think about it - I can't feel anyone else. Just him. His thoughts and emotions have been affecting me all along - but I _can't feel anyone else's_. Just his. Which has _never_ happened before.   
  
Except. . . .   
  
When I've had my shields up before and someone's touched me, for a few moments all I can feel is them. It knocks me out shortly after that, and when I wake up my shields are down so everyone's thoughts pound down into my head - but for a moment before I pass out, all I can feel is the mind of the person who touched me.   
  
Kudou and I had touched while we were asleep, so maybe . . . maybe the force of his sleeping mind was strong enough to get through my shields, but not strong enough to knock them down.   
  
I close my eyes so I don't have the distraction of Kudou's face in front of me, force the terror laced through my thoughts aside, and start poking around inside my head.   
  
And there it is.   
  
A single, slender cord connecting my mind to Kudou's.   
  
It doesn't go over the shield, or under it, or around it. It wouldn't be able to. Instead, it goes straight _through_ it, the shield sealing itself around the edges of that one slim, strong mental connection.   
  
Of course. Why didn't I think of that before? Punch a hole in the shield, secure a connection, then seal the shield straight back up again, around the connection. The connection holds and I don't go to La-La-Land.   
  
Opening my eyes, I smirk at Kudou. I can't help it. He stares at me like I've gone insane, and his eyes widen when I very, very slowly release his fingers and pull my hand away. I'm taking a chance here, because I don't know if it will work or not - it _should_ work, but nothing is certain.   
  
Aha! Yes!   
  
Grinning like a madman I jump to my feet before Yohji's incredulous eyes, then grab his face and plant a big smacker right on his lips. Too elated to consider turning it into anything else, I whoop and jump away, dancing in circles around Yohji's apartment.   
  
"What's got you so happy?" Yohji says, sounding amused. He stands up by the couch, arms crossed over his chest.   
  
Without thinking about it, I send my response along the slender thread connecting us through my shield. _[That I can do THIS!]_ I yell into his head. _[WOOHOO!]_   
  
"And," I say, skidding to a stop in front of him, "that I can do this!" And I grab his hands in mine and drag him into an energetic dance, skidding around his apartment and still grinning like a madman, relishing the feel of his fingers in mine. Yohji's laughing, letting himself be twirled around without resistance.   
  
Suddenly he stops, and I damn near trip over my own feet as he yanks on my arms to halt my momentum. "Schu, what the hell is going on?" he demands, flipping from being caught up in my enthusiastic joy to seriousness fast enough to leave my head spinning.   
  
"I don't know why I didn't think of it before," I tell him excitedly. "I can make a connection to someone's mind without having to drop my shields - I just need to punch it _through_ them! The shields seal up around the edges, which leaves me with a perfectly strong connection to someone - like you-" I grin, waving our combined hands at him, "-but doesn't inflict me with the thoughts of everyone else in the goddamn area! So now I can touch people as much as I like!" Leaning backwards, I let out a loud whoop and spin away from Yohji, dancing in circles.   
  
"So how did this happen?" Yohji asks, leaning against the wall with a bemused expression on his face.   
  
I stop and grin at him. "I think we must have started touching sometime during last night, when we were both asleep," I tell him. "Your mind didn't have the full force it does when awake in it, so the contact was strong enough to punch through my shields and establish a connection, but not enough to knock 'em down."   
  
A slow smile spreads over Yohji's face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Damn, he's pretty. "That's great," he says.   
  
I grin. "I know," I say, and wander into his kitchen to grab a beer. Too early in the morning for hard liquor - although I catch sight of a clock which says it's four in the afternoon. I shrug to myself, opening the fridge - that's early in the morning for me. Night shift'll screw your body clock up.   
  
When I straighten up again, Yohji's standing not more than a foot from me and frowning. Yesterday I would have been startled at his sudden appearance - the guy makes no goddamn _sound_ - but now I hide my grin behind the can. I _knew_ he was there. The newfound control I have gives me a feeling of power - a power I've never felt before. The power to control both my own thoughts, and my own 'talent' at the _same time_.   
  
"Schu, do you know how to make the connection?" Yohji asks me. "I mean, you can't exactly wait until you both fall asleep before you shake someone's hand," he adds reasonably.   
  
I scowl at him, the feeling of power abruptly vanishing. "Thanks for raining on the parade," I say sarcastically, slamming the fridge door shut and making my way back into the living room.   
  
Yohji winces and follows me into the room. "Just making sure you got all your bases covered," he murmurs, choosing to lean against the wall rather than sit down. Yohji likes leaning against things, I've noticed. I think it's because it puts him in the perfect position to advertise - with his shoulders against the wall he somehow finds it damn near impossible and apparently _very_ uncomfortable to put his hips in line with them. This leaves him in a position which is entirely natural to him but shows him off to the greatest effect - broad shoulders outlined on the wall, muscled arms crossed over his chest, long legs sloping down to the floor and hips thrust forwards just enough to be noticeable.   
  
It really is a very nice view.   
  
I sigh and slam the can down onto the coffee table, flopping onto the couch. "I know how it works in principle," I say. "Just haven't tried it while I'm awake yet."   
  
"You wanna try it now?" Yohji asks, his eyes slits that watch me cautiously.   
  
_No._   
  
"Sure," I say, shrugging lightly to push back the rising concern. I really don't want to lose this connection, but if I don't drop it now and try to replace it, I'll never know for sure if my idea was right or if it was just a fluke.   
  
I _really_ hope it wasn't just a fluke.   
  
Yohji walks over and drops bonelessly into the armchair, then smirks at me. Yeah, you can look smug all you want, you bastard - you're not the one who's gonna have to do the work.   
  
"Do your thing," Yohji says, his lazy drawl turning the words into an innuendo. Okay, that and my perverted mind at work.   
  
Shoving inappropriate thoughts aside - inappropriate? What the fuck? Now I know I'm mellowing - I frown and close my eyes, concentrating on the connection between us. I bite the inside of my lip, fighting with myself. I really don't want to lose this connection. Not now.   
  
Not ever.   
  
That decides it.   
  
I sever the connection in a split second, not giving myself time to think about it, then take a deep breath and watch the shield seal the place the connection took up. I don't need to prod it any more - I think I've managed to ingrain the habit of automatically mending the shield whenever it gets slightly damaged into my subconscious now.   
  
Thank fuck.   
  
I force my impatience back and make myself wait until the shield is fully healed. It takes an effort of will I'm proud of myself for - patience is not my strong suit. Nor is waiting until things are fully healed.   
  
Okay, focus. I select a different part of the shield, and try bludgeoning it with the full force of my mind. It creaks a little - metaphorically, of course - but remains firm.   
  
I pause, puzzled, then roll my eyes, realising the truth. Of _course_ it would hold up against a full-frontal attack of a telepath of my calibre - that's what it was meant for, after all. Whether that attack came from the inside or the outside was irrelevant. Unless amplified by touch, which meant it got a metaphorical foot in the door, nothing would knock it down.   
  
So what the fuck do I do now?   
  
I scowl at my shield, which is rapidly becoming a pain in the ass. I _knew_ I shouldn't have severed the connection. Now I'll never get it back.   
  
That thought brings a deep sense of unease with it, which I ignore, focusing on the problem at hand. Or at head. Or something.   
  
Pushing more random thoughts out of my head, I take a deep breath and start again.   
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
Oh, for fuck's sake!   
  
I scowl at my can of beer. Actually, I've been scowling at it for the past half an hour, so it really doesn't make much difference. That just makes me scowl harder.   
  
How fucking difficult can it be to knock one tiny fucking hole in my goddamn fucking shield?! I built the damn thing, I should know how to knock it down!   
  
Well, that's the problem, actually. I do know how to knock it down - but I only know how to knock it _all_ down. The manual doesn't come with instructions for destruction on a minute scale.   
  
A hand reaches into my line of vision, removes the beer can, and replaces it with a tall glass of what looks (and smells) like whiskey.   
  
Yohji's careful not to touch my fingers as he replaces the can.   
  
I sigh, my anger suddenly gone, leaving me feeling wonderfully depressed. His hand settles on my shoulder, and he murmurs, "You'll get the hang of it eventually. You did it once, you can do it again."   
  
I snort, and down half the glass.   
  
And promptly go into a coughing fit.   
  
Still hacking, I manage to dump the glass on the table and choke out, "Good kick."   
  
Yohji settles next to me, and I can almost feel his smirk. "Like it? Thought you'd appreciate something that burned a bit more than the usual crap."   
  
Déjà vu hits me like a ton of bricks, leaving me slightly dizzy. Okay, so being hit with a ton of bricks would make you more than slightly dizzy - if you were left alive at all - but we're talking metaphors here, so they don't have as much weight as the real thing.   
  
He grins at my incredulous expression when I turn to him. "Yup, that's the stuff you gave me the first night at the bar," he says, nodding towards the glass. "Thought I'd repay the favour."   
  
I roll my eyes at him. "You didn't hack up your lungs when you took a drink of it."   
  
He wags his finger just under my nose. "I had a shot glass," he says, smirking. "I wasn't stupid enough to down half a normal glass of the stuff in one go."   
  
"Who was the one who gave you the shot glass?" I ask pointedly.   
  
"Who was the one who was following bar instructions?" he shoots straight back.   
  
I wince. "Touché," I say.   
  
"Speaking of the bar. . . ." Kudou peers back over his shoulder, craning his neck to look at the clock on the stereo. "Isn't it about time for you to start work?"   
  
My head whips around to stare at the clock. "Holy fuck," I blurt, jumping to my feet and diving for my shoes. "Kudou, you're driving me or I'm hotwiring your car!"   
  
"Me?" I can _hear_ his innocent expression. Come on, Yohji, don't try that shit on me - I know you better than that. "What have I got to do with you being late for work?"   
  
"Everything! It was your goddamn idea!"   
  
"What was?"   
  
"Everything! Now get your sodding coat before I'm late and get kicked out on my ass!"   
  
Yohji just chuckles and gets his sodding coat.

**[End Part 4]**

Comments?

Ooh, can I do a random plug here? I recently opened my new fic rec site, Don't blame the messenger, so I was wondering if any of you lovely people would like to go visit? The URL is http:// anria.deep-ice.com/rec/ . No need for a www. ^_^ See ya!


	5. Part 5

Many, many apologies for the long wait. The chapter's slightly longer to compensate for that! Enjoy!

**Warnings**: lotsa language, angst, building up to _more_ angst  
**Pairings**: Schuldig/Yohji  
**Summary**: Schuldig's POV as he copes with life after Schwarz and Estet. And then Yohji finds him, and things get interesting.  
**Archive**: Lunacy in Two Forms (URL on the profile page because FF.N is a bastard)  
**Disclaimer**: I like denial. They're all mine.

As always, dedicated to Karen from KanaDUH. ^_^ Plus a little extra note to say thanks to Minerva Solo for being such a great pal and helping me figure out some of this chapter. (The thing with the peanuts was her idea.) Wish her luck, she's up at Cambridge right now for interview!

**Healing**  
by Anria  
**Part 5**

Well, I didn't get fired. I suppose that's something, at least.   
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
Do you know what the most fucking annoying thing in this world is? Having something wonderful, that was all yours just for a moment, and then seeing it get ripped away. My experience with people tells me that they react in one of two ways to that - either get terminally depressed, or fucking _pissed off_.   
  
Can you guess which route I picked?   
  
Depression pokes its head 'round the door occasionally, just to niggle at me, but never stays long. Being angry is more tiring, but it gives me enough determination that I don't just decide to give up, roll over, and play dead.   
  
Yohji's been hanging around at the bar more often, though he's drinking less. _He_ claims he hangs around to stop me moping. _I_ say he hangs around in the hopes of distracting me so much the boss finally gives me the sack.   
  
"Bar peanuts are some of the world's most disgusting food," Yohji muses, poking idly at a bowl of the said snacks.   
  
I grunt, not really paying much attention. Wiping mugs seems to be the stereotypical job of barmen everywhere, so I'm currently engaging in being a cliché. It's comforting to let Yohji babble on about nothing at all, giving me something to focus on other than my failure to control my goddamned "talent".   
  
Yohji picks up a peanut and holds it in front of his face, staring at it. "Do you know," he says, "that there are supposed to be thirteen different kinds of urine on this?" [1]   
  
Because I really needed to know that. "Don't eat it then," I say.   
  
Yohji grins, and pops it in his mouth.   
  
The bastard did that just to make me cringe. I roll my eyes at him instead and slam the mug down onto the bar before picking up another one.   
  
"You ever think about the snacks bars all over the world seem to have?" Yohji says after a moment, apparently content to talk at me. He likes the sound of his own voice, although I can see why. It's got a sort of purr to it, making him sound like a cat that just got . . . its belly rubbed. Yeeeeeah.   
  
"For example, pickled onions," he continues, staring at his glass as he absently rolls it on its edge, making what's left of the drink inside slop around in circles.   
  
"What about them?"   
  
"What is the _point_ in pickled onions?"   
  
I shrug. "What's the point in peanuts? What's the point in bars? What's the point in life?"   
  
Yohji leans on his arm, keeping his face from being pressed against the sticky surface of the bar. "To not die, of course."   
  
"To cause others pain and ourselves pleasure." I work my neck from side to side, trying to ease out the tension in it. Doesn't work. Nothing I do seems to work, and it's fucking frustrating, which just makes me tense up even more.   
  
Yohji raises his glass and sits up a little. "I'll drink to that."   
  
"Funny, I thought you were an optimist."   
  
Yohji waggles his eyebrows. He looks utterly ridiculous - it's got to be the stupidest thing I've seen all day. "And you're not?"   
  
I snort, trying to smother my smile. "I'm not the one who never wears underwear."   
  
The blond idiot wags his finger at me. "Aha, so you _hear_, but do you _know_?"   
  
I stop, and put down the glass and towel. Planting my hands firmly on the bar, I lean close so our faces are barely inches apart and we're breathing the same air. His breath smells of whiskey, and I wonder briefly if he'd taste of it, too.   
  
_You'll never find out, will you?_   
  
Ignoring the bastard little voice at the back of my mind that just _loves_ to remind me of reality, I purr, "I know."   
  
Yohji's eyebrow shoots up. "Oh?" he says. "And whose mind did you suck that out of?"   
  
I wait until he takes a drink from his glass before saying, "Omi's."   
  
Kudou chokes, his drink spraying from his mouth onto the already sticky bar. He coughs violently, looking utterly traumatised, and I burst out laughing. I laugh so hard I have to catch my balance on the bar, one hand clutching my sides.   
  
After a moment I realise Yohji's recovered from his coughing fit and is watching me with a slight smile on his face. Suspicion instantly wipes out the last of my amusement.   
  
"What's so funny?"   
  
"Nothing." Yohji picks up his glass and swirls it. He likes doing that. "You just looked happy."   
  
He was smiling at me . . . because I looked happy?   
  
Okay, I am not going to blush.   
  
Not.   
  
Definitely not.   
  
No way.   
  
. . . why the hell am I blushing?   
  
Yohji snickers, pointing at me. "You clash," he says.   
  
Bastard.   
  
I smile sweetly and grab his bottle, easily holding it out of reach. "I think you've had enough," I say.   
  
"That's cruel and unusual punishment." Yohji makes a half-hearted swipe for the bottle, missing by a mile. "I've paid for that, you know."   
  
"Let the punishment fit the crime," I say, and take a swig.   
  
He grins at me. "Asshole."   
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
Time goes past. It has a habit of doing that, I've noticed.   
  
We've kept up our meetings, both at the bar and on my night off. Yohji's been trying to help me with my talent, but there's only so much a non-telepath can do. So in the end, the attempts filtered down to a minimum and we're back to watching movies and getting drunk.   
  
"Hey, Yohji," I say, wandering out of the kitchen into his living area. I hand him a beer and sprawl out on the sofa. "How much money have you got left, anyway? You're not working, right?"   
  
Yohji shrugs, eyes fixed on the TV screen. "I put a lot of it in stocks and bonds. There's quite a bit of it there now - I probably won't need to work for another few years, possibly even a decade if I play my cards right."   
  
I blink. "How long have you been saving up?"   
  
"Since. . . ." Yohji's words trail off and he frowns at the can in his hands. Abruptly, he stands up and grabs the remote, switching off the TV before turning to me. "You want to go out?" he asks, an overly bright grin on his face.   
  
I frown at him, but get up anyway. Fuck it, if he wants to avoid the subject, who am I to go prying?   
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
We end up going out every time I get a break now. Kudou keeps dragging me back to the little coffee shop where we first went back - fuck, has it really been six months?   
  
Weird.   
  
The café is mostly deserted most nights, which is good for us. There's one table right at the back which has seats you just sink into. It's perfect for us because it gives us privacy, puts our backs to a different wall each, is close to the back exit, and lets us see the whole café easily.   
  
Heh. Paranoia. But we're still alive, aren't we?   
  
"Coming up to the anniversary," I muse out loud, warming my hands on the mug of coffee.   
  
"Anniversary of what?" Yohji asks around his cigarette. He's picked up an abandoned magazine off another table and is fighting his way through the crossword puzzle. "Two across: 'this occurs when a child is separated from an important attachment figure.' Eleven letters."   
  
That's a damn weird clue. I frown at the crossword and try to read it upside down. "Psy . . . psychword? What the fuck _is_ that thing?" [2]   
  
"It's a special psychology edition of whatever the hell this magazine is. I read the editor's note." Yohji absently taps the end of his cigarette against the ash tray before taking another drag. "You got any idea about that one?"   
  
I think about it. I can vaguely remember Nagi studying something like this at one point. "Deprivation?" I hazard.   
  
Yohji frowns, then grins at me. "Perfect! So, what anniversary?"   
  
"Of when they all died." I take a sip from my mug, and burn my tongue again. Dammit, why can I never drink anything hot without burning my tongue?   
  
"'They?'" Yohji queries softly, still bent over his crossword.   
  
"Crawford. Nagi. Farf." I take a gulp of my coffee this time. Heck, if a sip burned my tongue why worry about a mouthful? "Ken. Omi. You know."   
  
"That soon, huh?"   
  
There's an odd note to Yohji's voice, and I frown at him, but he's bent over that stupid crossword so I can't see his face. Keeping my tone light, I reply, "Yep. Was wondering what to do about it - aren't you supposed to go visit a grave or something on the anniversary of someone's death?"   
  
"Only if they have a grave to go to. Only if the body in the grave is really theirs." Yohji's voice is much softer, and he doesn't seem to be focusing on the page in front of him at all.   
  
_Something's up._   
  
Suddenly, he sits back and grins wryly at me. "After all, Kenken and Omittchi already had graves before they actually died. What about Schwarz? Were you officially retired from life when you joined Estet, or did the psychos who wanted to take over the world have a retirement plan?"   
  
I answer him easily, but I'm certain this is bugging him more than he wants to let on.   
  
I'm also fairly sure that when he talked about the wrong body in a grave, he wasn't referring to Ken and Omi.   
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
Somehow, the next night at Yohji's ends up as our way of remembering them. It's not the right day - hell, it's not even the right way to honour the dead - but who really gives a fuck?   
  
I still get the feeling that . . . for Yohji, this is just the precursor to something big.   
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
"Schu?"   
  
"Hmm?"   
  
"What was it you liked the most about Schwarz?"   
  
"What was it I _liked_ about Schwarz? Pick the hard questions, why don't you."   
  
"There's got to be something."   
  
". . ."   
  
". . . and?"   
  
"Fine! Fine. I had little things I liked about them. Like how Crawford could be an anal bastard but everything he did was to get us out of Estet. How Farfie could be so . . . jaded in some ways, and then do something which made him seem like a total innocent. How Nagi _was_ a total innocent, despite everything, but tried to pretend he was big and tough so we wouldn't look down on him."   
  
"Did you?"   
  
"Did I what?"   
  
"Look down on him?"   
  
"He was a kid in school uniform with a permanently grumpy expression. I couldn't help it."   
  
". . ."   
  
". . . what about you?"   
  
"Eh?"   
  
"You! Weiss! What was it you liked the most?"   
  
". . . heh. Now I know what you mean about it being a hard question."   
  
"Kudou. . . ."   
  
"Fine! Fine. Omi mothered everybody, which was damned annoying, but he was always there, you know? Whenever you needed something. I don't think we did the same for him very well when his memories started coming back, though. . . . Strangely enough, it was Aya who really got through to him then. Aya's a bastard. The only reason I didn't strangle him was because . . . there was a nice guy under there, somewhere. But the nice guy couldn't cope, so the bastard took over, and the bastard annoyed the fuck out of me. Ken was just . . . he was just _Ken_. A good guy with a temper. I think he was the only one out of us that really believed in what we were doing."   
  
"And they're all dead, except the bastard."   
  
"Heh. Yeah."   
  
". . ."   
  
". . ."   
  
". . . I wish they were still alive."   
  
". . . me too."   
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
"Did you fuck him?"   
  
"Huh? Who?"   
  
"Ken. Did you fuck him?"   
  
"No! Why the hell would I - shit, don't look at me like that. I mean it! I- It was just the once, okay? I was drunk, and he was there, and he was . . . _Ken_. You know what I mean."   
  
"Do I?"   
  
"Yes, you do. And how the fuck did you know I fucked Ken?"   
  
"Intuition. So, why did you fuck him?"   
  
"I already told you that!"   
  
"No you didn't."   
  
"Yes I - okay, fine, I didn't."   
  
". . . and?"   
  
"Can't you just leave it alone?"   
  
"Nope. Tell."   
  
"He was . . . _Ken_. I think he really believed, deep down, that people were all good underneath. I mean, otherwise he'd have to say that Kase was always a jerk and he just didn't notice, right? He had to adopt Omi's way of looking at things to survive in Weiss - that the bad are bad and the good are good - but . . . shit, even after everything we'd been through he still believed that people could be good. That they could be nice without some ulterior motive. And damn it all to hell, but that's addictive."   
  
"So you fucked him . . . for what? So you could catch innocence off him?"   
  
"Shit, say it like that and it sounds so sordid."   
  
"Isn't it?"   
  
"Well, yeah, but. . . ."   
  
". . ."   
  
". . ."   
  
". . . I'd have done the same."   
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
"Do you think they'd approve?"   
  
"Of what?"   
  
"Of this. Us. The white hunter and the dark beast, together in the same room getting drunk and talking like we're actually _friends_."   
  
". . . did you listen in on our mission briefings?"   
  
"Is it _my_ fault Persia's an outstanding comedian?"   
  
"Heh, guess not. . . . Omi wouldn't approve."   
  
"Never forgive the bad ones, eh?"   
  
"You know about that?"   
  
"The kid was fucked up. Blame it on his father."   
  
"Yeah, Takatori Reiji has a lot to answer for."   
  
". . . shit!"   
  
"What?"   
  
"I forgot you don't know. Heh."   
  
"Forgot I don't know what?"   
  
"Oh, you'll love this one - Omi's father wasn't Reiji, it was Shuichi."   
  
". . . come again?"   
  
"Ever wonder just _why_ Daddy dearest didn't pay the ransom? He knew Omi - Mamoru - wasn't his kid. His wife and Shuichi had had an affair, and the result was dear little Omi."   
  
"Shit. . . ."   
  
"Yeah. Shuichi didn't know - I suppose at the time he thought it would be ironic to use Reiji's kid against him. When he found out Omi was _his_ son, he regretted what he put the kid through. Funny, ain't it?"   
  
"When did he find out Omi was his son?"   
  
"Right before Reiji killed him."   
  
"Shit. . . ."   
  
"You said that."   
  
"So . . . it was his _father_ that turned him into a murderer?"   
  
"Yeah."   
  
". . ."   
  
". . ."   
  
"I'm glad he's dead."   
  
"Good for you. Hey, weren't you going to go on about whether the rest of Weiss would approve?"   
  
"If you insist. Aya - shit, I really don't know. Part of me says he'd kill himself before admitting that you're not _so_ bad, and part of me says he'd never think it in the first place."   
  
"So either way, he wouldn't approve. What about Kenken?"   
  
". . . I think it would take him a long time to come around to it, but he would. I mean, like I said before, deep down he really thought that everybody was good at heart, it was just some got led down the wrong path. He made himself separate people into 'good' and 'bad', and it would hurt him to have to go back to thinking everybody's good-"   
  
"-or everybody's a bastard-"   
  
"-or everybody's a bastard, but in the end he'd do it. He'd accept it, because he's just that damn _nice_."   
  
". . . did you love him?"   
  
"What?"   
  
"It's a simple question, Kudou."   
  
"I know that, it's just - fine. No, I didn't love him. Happy now, asshole?"   
  
"Woah, calm down! Why the fuck are you angry?"   
  
"Fuck off."   
  
"No."   
  
". . ."   
  
". . ."   
  
". . ."   
  
". . . you're gonna have to talk to me at some point."   
  
"I _should have_ loved him. I admired him, I fucked him and loved every minute of it, he was a great friend - I _should've_ loved him. But I didn't."   
  
"Why not?"   
  
". . ."   
  
". . . Yohji?"   
  
"Because I'm a fucking retard, all right?"   
  
"That's not the reason."   
  
"It might as well be!"   
  
"Shit, Kudou, I'm not stupid!"   
  
"Could've fooled me."   
  
"Look, let's try this again - why didn't you love Ken? A simple 'I don't know' would suffice!"   
  
"Fuck you."   
  
"Dammit, what crawled up your arse and died?"   
  
"You'll never know, will you?"   
  
". . ."   
  
"Shit. Schu, I'm sorry."   
  
"Fuck off. You don't want me around? Fine, I won't be around."   
  
"Schu, wait a minute-"   
  
"Fuck. You."   
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
Shit, I know it was childish. I know it was stupid. But being unable to touch people is a sore spot for me and he damn well knows it. At least I have the excuse of the Ken thing only coming out tonight.   
  
I slam into my shithole and bolt the door. The mattress is uncomfortable, but that's normal. It feels unfamiliar though, which is strange - I hadn't realised I'd been spending the night (or day, in my case) over at Yohji's so often.   
  
Well. Guess I won't be doing that for a while.   
  
. . . the Ken thing.   
  
What the fuck is up with that? Is Yohji feeling guilty because he couldn't make himself love him? _Did_ he love him and just won't admit it?   
  
Even in death Weiss gets more than me.   
  
Figures.   
  
I groan and drag my hands over my face. "If Ken's so fucking perfect, why _wouldn't_ he love him?" I say out loud, voice muffled under my palms. I don't think it's just that, though. I mean, he's been avoiding talking about whatever's bugging him for so long that to start yakking about Ken tonight just doesn't follow.   
  
. . . fuck it. I'm going to sleep. Kudou fucking Yohji's fucking love problems are none of my fucking concern.   
  
And, like he pointed out tonight, they never will be.   
  
**[End Part 5]**  
  
[1] Wonderful little fact pointed out to me by my friend Min. O.o Just wanted you always wanted to know about bar peanuts.   
  
[2] This "psychword" thing actually exists - I once bought a magazine that had it in. Psychology 'zines are _weird_. . . .   
  
Heh, Schuldig's jealous of a dead man and in denial, while Yohji's building up to some major angsting, and we have so retrospective Yohji+Ken. Awwwwww. (Sorry, I love those two! And there aren't nearly enough fics for them, dammit. .)   
  
Meh. Did you guys like? 


	6. Part 6

Now the fic is finally finished, I want to thank all the wonderful people who've reviewed it and given me encouragement. I know I haven't replied to any reviews, but I'm really, really grateful that you took the time out just to let me know you liked it. It'd take way too long to reply to everyone here (which was my original intention), so I'm going to have to settle for thanking the following people:  
  
Gale, Leah, Krimson, Bea-chan, Lupin, Kato_chan, Suisei Lady Dragon, Weiss Assassin, Chibi-chan, Rikkali, Phantom_Sunstorm, Joanna, random person, Pandora.81, Li, E-san, Fehu, Tysoyo Kalli, Sylph, MiniMorr, Lexicon Katzchen, Shi-chan, Laz, Tritorella, Vesta, Kelly, Tina, Cayenne, Miss J, Black Kitten, Evil Butterflies, Mon, Kisara-chan, Myka, Reillu, and Brennend.  
  
I think I got everyone. ^_^  
  
Extra special thanks go to my darling Min, who helped me brainstorm parts 5 & 6, betaed part 6, and told me where I was going wrong on the original ending. The fic is dedicated to Karen, as always, for being one of the most ultra spiffy people I have never met face to face. (Not to mention for being visitor #666 to my WK site, the Temple of Lunacy. ^_^)  
  
**Warnings**: lots and lots of language, angst, and . . . some light smut. I can't work out if the smut counts as a lime or not - all I know is that it isn't a lemon. It was originally _going_ to be a lemon, but then Schu decided he wanted plot instead. O.o Yeah, I know.  
**Pairing**: I've _finally_ got to the Schu/Yohji. ^__________^  
**Disclaimer**: not mine, but damn I wish they were.  
**Archive**: got moved around again. ^_^ Try Demented Minds (URL on profile page) for my ficcies.  
  


**Healing**  
by Anria  
**Part 6**

  
  
I wake the next morning, and remember.  
  
"Fuck."  
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
Yohji hasn't come to the bar tonight. I feel like I should go apologise, but – fuck that. He started it.  
  
Shit, I didn't just think that, did I?  
  
I sigh, staring blankly at the row of bottles in front of me for a moment, before grabbing the one I need. I can't wait for this fucking shift to end, so I can go home and wallow in self-pity in peace. Is this how fights between friends are supposed to go? I thought most people fought, then made up, and then everything was hunky-dory again.  
  
Maybe it's just me. I tend to screw up everything I touch, after all.  
  
Fuck.  
  
I move on autopilot, handing out drinks and collecting cash without really thinking about it. I didn't think . . . I didn't realise just how much of a space Yohji takes up in my life.  
  
Took up. _Took_ up.  
  
Fuck.  
  
But for crap's sake, it can't be normal to be missing one person this much. I mean, he's still _alive_, if I really wanted to I could just walk right up to his apartment and see him again. So it makes no _sense_ to be missing him – which just means I'm being fucking stupid.  
  
Right, time to stop.  
  
I'm just fucking _fine_.  
  
Just . . . fine.  
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
It's been three days, and I'm bored out of my tiny little skull.  
  
I bought a clock. Not a digital one, one of those irritating ones that goes _tic toc_ the whole bloody time. The noise it generates makes my shithole seem less empty.  
  
I shift on my bed, causing the springs to squeak and groan ominously. Rolling my eyes, I tuck one arm behind my head and take a drink from the bottle in my other hand, ignoring it. If the bed's gonna give out, it'll give out no matter what I do – I'm not likely to be having energetic sex on it any time soon, so who gives a fuck?  
  
I'll need another drink soon. Heh. My shithole's turned into something like an abandoned bottle bank recently – recently being in the past three days. I don't remember drinking this much when Yohji was around.  
  
. . .  
  
_Yohji, Yohji,_ why do my thoughts always come back to fucking _**Yohji**_? It's not like I give a shit! If he wants to throw a fucking tantrum and piss me the hell off, he can deal with the fucking consequences. It's not like it bothers me if I haven't seen him for three days. I don't give a shit. I _don't_.  
  
"I hope you're fucking drinking yourself into a grave," I mutter, and down the rest of the bottle.  
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
Out of idle curiosity, I take up working on my shields again.  
  
I figure the safest place I can do that is in the bar. There, even if I do cock up and blow my shields to hell and back, it won't matter because the only people who'll be around me will be self-absorbed drunken sots. Trust me, they are _not_ the most stimulating – in either a good or bad way – of mental conversationalists.  
  
I've worked here so long that I can do pretty much everything on autopilot. I let my mind wander, and try bludgeoning my shield, stabbing it, melting it, dissolving it, even fucking _drowning_ it, and nothing works.  
  
Shields belonging to a telepath are a bitch to deal with.  
  
Heh.  
  
It's not just me that has a bitch for shields, though – any telepath's shield is strongly keyed into their weaknesses. What they'd yield to in real life is what their shield would yield to.  
  
Which is why this is so fucking _difficult_. I never thought the day would come when I'd be cursing myself for being resistant to damn near everything.  
  
I scowl at a mug ring on the surface of the bar, then turn and tell the boss I'm taking a cigarette break.  
  
The alley behind the bar is dark, smelly, and damp. Pretty much standard fare, and I've got to know it too fucking well recently. Ever since Y—  
  
No! No, dammit! I am _**not**_ going to think about him!  
  
I yank my pack of cigarettes out of my shirt pocket and light one hurriedly, inhaling deeply. I've been smoking more recently. Drinking more, too. Anything so I don't have to listen to the thoughts in my head for a while, though I've been lucky in avoiding the harder drugs so far.  
  
It just occurred to me that the only thoughts I want to escape right now are my own. There's irony for you.  
  
The door to the bar opens beside me with a squeak, and my boss steps out. He's a big guy for a Jap, almost as tall as me and about three times as wide. Got a bullshit tolerance of zero and absolutely no sense of humour, but still . . . he's a good guy to work for. Better than some I could name.  
  
"Hey, kid," he says, looking straight at me. "You okay?"  
  
I snort and turn away, taking a drag on my cigarette. "Just fucking peachy," I mutter, tucking the pack back into my pocket. Just what I need – my boss suddenly developing a pressing need to delve into my emotional well-being. Maybe if I ignore him he'll go the fuck away.  
  
"Only . . . I haven't seen that friend of yours, for a while. Kudou, was it?"  
  
Oh, great. Maybe bitchiness will work. "What's your fucking point?"  
  
He folds his arms over his chest, leaning against the door frame. One foot is propping the heavy metal door open, which is just as well because otherwise we'd be locked out. I spare a moment to wonder who's watching the bar, then decide it's not my problem.  
  
The boss' voice is totally neutral as he says, "The two of you have a fight?"  
  
I finish my cigarette and drop it to the ground, crushing it under a boot heel. "You make us sound like a fucking couple."  
  
There's no mistaking the surprise on his face. "You mean you aren't?"  
  
"What the fuck?" I stare at him in complete shock. "Where the hell did you get that from?"  
  
He shrugs his massive shoulders, face impassive again. "I must've read wrong, then. Sorry." With that, he disappears back inside.  
  
I stand there in mute shock for a moment, staring at the now-closed metal door.  
  
_"You make us sound like a fucking couple."  
  
"You mean you aren't?"_  
  
Fuck. Just . . . fuck.  
  
I slump back against the wall, not caring what crap I'm getting on my clothes. A bunch of emotions I don't understand and can't fucking _deal_ with well up inside me, stealing the strength from my limbs and grabbing my composure too, just for the hell of it.  
  
I press a hand to my face, shaking a little. I can't _deal_ with this, I just _can't_—  
  
Okay. Focus, Schuldig. Breathe.  
  
I _can't_, I can't fucking—  
  
My shields. I was trying to work out how to get through my shields. I grab onto the thought like a lifeline, desperately trying to focus on something as fucking unrelated as it can get before I break down, and—  
  
_Shields!_  
  
I hammer at them with everything I've got, pounding the crap out of my walls from within my own head. I try everything I've tried before, and nothing works because nothing is ever going to work and I'll just be fucking _stuck_ like this, on my own _forever_ because I _fucked_ up—  
  
_Please,_ I beg myself, _please just **fucking** open up a **fucking** hole in the **fucking** shields for me before I start **fucking** crying—_  
  
—and there it is.  
  
I don't believe it.  
  
I don't _fucking_ believe it.  
  
I start to laugh, one hand over my face and the other arm wrapped around my stomach, and if it sounds hysterical, if it sounds like the laughter of a madman, I don't really care. It's so . . . so _stupid_.  
  
It's so _me_.  
  
All I had to do was say 'please'.  
  
My breath hitches in the middle of my laughter, and I choke on the sudden tears that well up. All I can think of is one thing, feeling it more fervently than anything I've ever felt before.  
  
_I want to see Yohji._  
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
I abandon the bar and run all the way to his apartment block. I hammer on the door until a security guard opens and I shove past him, slamming him hard into the doorframe on the way and knocking him out. I don't spare a moment to think of him, though, running up the stairs and down the corridor and to a dead halt right in front of his door.  
  
And suddenly, the force of emotion that drove me all the way here is just . . . gone.  
  
All that's left is me, and a door.  
  
I'd left my coat back at the bar, and it started to rain while I was running. One of those goddamn annoying rains that's just a fucking drizzle but still gets you soaking wet. I'm out of breath, panting hard, and my clothes are sticking to my skin in awkward places.  
  
What the hell am I doing here?  
  
I don't know the answer to the question.  
  
I just . . . I just. . . .  
  
I have to leave.  
  
The instant I make that decision, the door opens, and Yohji's standing there.  
  
Talk about your damn ironies. I stare at him, mute, frozen still and feeling like an absolute prat because I can't think of anything to say. Not when I haven't seen him for five days – five days that feel like a lifetime – and when he looks like death warmed over.  
  
The smell of his apartment drifts out. It stinks of alcohol, and so does he.  
  
Yohji's staring at me, his green eyes wide. I can't stop myself thinking that even when bloodshot, I've never seen anything more beautiful.  
  
His lips move, and his voice emerges as a croak. "Schu?"  
  
I jump, and the strange paralysis that took me over dissolves. "Uh . . . yeah," I say. _Oh, great, that was smooth._ "Um . . . can I come in?"  
  
Yohji stares at me for a moment, then moves aside, holding the door open. I force myself into his apartment before I can change my mind and bolt.  
  
The automatic lock on the door clicks into place as it shuts, and suddenly I'm terrified.  
  
I stumble into the living room and stop, standing a little stupidly in the middle of the carpet. I feel out of place, my black shirt and trousers contrasting starkly against Yohji's white room.  
  
I'm dripping on the carpet.  
  
Yohji follows me slowly, and stops near the doorway to the kitchen. The only light on in the apartment is in there, silhouetting him and . . . fucking hell, he looks like shit. His clothes are rumpled, his eyes are bloodshot, there's stubble on his chin and he doesn't look like he's slept in days.  
  
I feel sick, suddenly. I feel like this is my fault. And I don't know what to say.  
  
We stand there for an infinite moment, just looking at each other, and suddenly I have so _much_ to say that I just don't know where to begin – I want to say I'm sorry, I want to say he looks like crap, I want to say I missed him, I want to say I care about him more than anyone I ever met before—  
  
"You're wet," Yohji observes, breaking the silence.  
  
I swallow. "Yeah," I say, a little stupidly. "It's . . . it's raining outside."  
  
He shifts position slightly, looking uncomfortable. "Schu—"  
  
"I'm sorry!" I cry, the words bursting out from inside me. "I'm so fucking sorry, and I would've said it sooner but I'm a fucking retard and convinced myself I didn't care, but I do care and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been such a prat, I—"  
  
In two swift strides Yohji crosses the room, and I gasp as I'm suddenly swept up in a fierce hug, his arms crushing me tight to him. "You shouldn't be sorry," he mutters into my shoulder. "You shouldn't be, it was my fault, my fucking fault—"  
  
And then I'm holding him back, squeezing, trying to press myself as close as I can and is this what friends do, too?  
  
The hug is a little awkward, with Yohji trying to hold himself away from the patches of bare skin on my face and neck and yet hold me as close as he possibly can. We keep babbling platitudes to each other but I'm not hearing a word because it doesn't fucking matter since _I have Yohji back again_. Nothing matters, next to that.  
  
"I wish I could touch you," he mutters, arms tightening further. Fuck, I'm gonna have bruised ribs in the morning, but—  
  
"You can," I say, pulling back a little to yank off one of my gloves, touching his cheek. "I figured it out, and you can touch me now—"  
  
I cut myself off abruptly as I get a good look at his expression. His eyes are glittering, and the look on his face. . . .  
  
For a long moment, neither of us moves.  
  
And then we're kissing, and I don't know who started it and I don't care and I'll never care because I've never felt anything as fucking _good_, as fucking _right_ as this. His hand fists in my hair, pressing my mouth harder against his as his other hand grabs my hips to pull me closer. I can feel my teeth pressing into my lips, his belt digging into my stomach and I don't give a shit because his tongue is in my mouth and he's hard against me and he tastes like fucking honey and I just want _more_.  
  
I grab his shirt and yank it up, slipping underneath to touch his skin, exploring as much of his flesh as I can. He moans into my mouth and suddenly we're against the wall and he's thrusting his thigh between mine and grinding against me, and I never realised before but frottage is fucking _wonderful_. His mouth leaves mine to plant desperate, wet, open-mouthed kisses all over my face and neck - he kisses my cheek, my jaw, my neck, my nose, my eyelids before returning to my mouth. He slips his tongue back in again, and I moan at the taste of him, my hands slipping down from under his shirt into his trousers, gripping his buttocks to pull him tighter against me, thrusting our erections together.  
  
Yohji's hands are busy roaming under my clothes, undoing my shirt so he can touch my skin. "Missed you so fucking much," he mumbles as his mouth leaves mine again. I dart forward and bite his neck lightly, sucking the skin into my mouth. Yohji groans and tips his head back, and as good as the physical is it's so much fucking _better_ knowing just how much he did miss me.  
  
_[Missed you too,]_ I tell him.  
  
He gasps as I nip on his neck, running his hands over my unclothed torso. "Wanted to do this for so long," he moans. "Want to kiss you, and touch you, and suck you and fuck you until you're screaming my name. . . ."  
  
His words send a shudder of desire through me, because I want that as well – I've wanted it for so fucking long I don't even have to think about it any more, I just know that I've never wanted anything more and I'll probably never want anything else again.  
  
I pull back from his neck to stare into his face, our hips still moving rhythmically together. "Want you," I gasp. "Want you so fucking much."  
  
He kisses me again, pressing me into the wall with the full length of his body.  
  
And suddenly it's all wrong.  
  
I tear my mouth away from his and forcibly push him away, gasping. "We have to stop," I manage to get out, and it's both the easiest and the hardest fucking thing I've ever said.  
  
"Why?" I can hear the surprise in Yohji's voice, taste it in his mind. "I want to _fuck_ you, Schu," he says, his voice raw.  
  
Don't I fucking know it. I shut my eyes and force out the feeling of his desire and mine, and it ain't easy, let me tell you that.  
  
Yohji tenses suddenly, and pulls away from me a little. "You're not . . . you're not still pissed off about the Ken thing, are you?"  
  
What the. . . . Oh, that just does it.  
  
I jerk to my full height and glare at him. I must look pretty damn stupid with my shirt undone and hanging off one shoulder, hair messed up more than usual, lips kiss-bruised, scowling at him for all I'm worth – but I don't give a damn. "I am not pissed off about the Ken thing," I snap. "I was never pissed off about the Ken thing. I'm fucking pissed off that you're using the Ken thing to hide whatever the _real_ thing that's been bugging you for weeks is about, and I'm not taking another fucking _step_ towards your bedroom until I find out what it is!"  
  
Yohji stares at me in the half-light from the kitchen and then, unbelievably, he begins to chuckle. "You are such a fucking woman, Schu," he says.  
  
"I fucking well am not!"  
  
"Oh, you know you are," he grins, and sing-songs at me, "You're jealous of a dead guy."  
  
I narrow my eyes at him and step forward. "And you're avoiding the problem."  
  
"You think _I'm_ the one with the problem?" he mocks lightly, stepping backwards to avoid me. "Who's in denial here, you or me?"  
  
"Right now, you," I growl. "I wanna know what got you so fucking upset. Is that such a goddamn big deal?"  
  
"When I want to fuck you, yeah," Yohji snaps back.  
  
"Not gonna happen 'til you tell me what the problem is, Kudou," I snap right back.  
  
He glowers at me, and for a moment I think we're going to get into a yelling competition – and then he sighs and looks away. "We only just made up," he says. "I don't want to fight again."  
  
The tension drains from me abruptly, and I say nothing.  
  
He rubs a hand over his face, and it suddenly strikes me just how tired he feels. "Sorry," I mutter, looking down. Yohji makes me feel so many new things, and most of them are good, but before today – before today, I'm fairly sure I'd never felt guilty.  
  
He slumps into a chair, his familiar sprawl making something ache in my chest. I hesitate and spare a moment to wish I was still up against the wall with his hands on me, before stepping over his legs to settle myself onto the couch. No point in complaining when I'm getting what I wanted.  
  
"I missed you so much when you were gone," he says quietly. "You made me happy. You made me forget. I never had that before."  
  
I look at him blankly. Our connection still holds, so I guess I _could_ go rummaging around in his head to find out what the fuck he's talking about, but it's better to hear it from the horse's mouth, as it were. Besides, my 'talent' has never really been an issue before so I have no fucking idea where the boundaries are – don't want to overshoot one of them by accident.  
  
"Look, Schu—" he stops abruptly, and rubs his hand over his face. When he speaks again, his voice is flat and lifeless. "You know about Asuka? And Neu?"  
  
I nod slowly, then realise he isn't looking at me. "Yeah," I say.  
  
"I nearly missed the anniversary of her death. Her _actual_ death, you know, the one where I strangled her and killed her. I nearly missed it because I was having so much fucking fun just being with you."  
  
I sway slightly, overwhelmed by the sudden surge of bitterness and self-hatred flooding from him. Reaching out blindly, I grab the arm of the sofa and force myself to stay upright, clenching my jaw and swallowing. Blinking rapidly helps to dull the tears down, and I wonder how he can sit over there and look so fucking calm when he's in so much pain.  
  
"There must have been some other way to save her. I've been over it a thousand times, thinking that I could have done this or I could have done that, and she'd still be here today and she'd be _Asuka_, too. But I killed her, because she said she loved Masafumi and I hated her right then because it meant that I wasn't good enough. I lost to an evil sadistic _bastard_ and that makes me _worse_ than _him_, because I gave up on her out of _jealousy_—"  
  
"None of that's fucking true!" I burst out.  
  
"Isn't it?" he glared at me out of bloodshot eyes.  
  
"It isn't," I insist.  
  
Yohji stares at me, and speaks slowly and clearly, as though speak to an idiot. "I killed the woman I loved—" _ouch_ "—because she loved somebody other than me. I was going to knock her out from lack of air, and then take her back with me and find some way to _help_ her – but instead I killed her because she chose him over me. I _killed_ her, Schu, and a year later I've almost fucking _forgot_ about it because I found someone else."  
  
I open my mouth, then close it a moment later. It sends a ridiculous little thrill through me to hear him say _"I found someone else,"_ but commenting on that won't help anything.  
  
I'm not sure why I'm trying to help. Schuldig of Schwarz wouldn't have bothered.  
  
But then . . . Schuldig of Schwarz wouldn't have cared in the first place.  
  
I wrack my brains, and can only think of one thing to say. Yohji won't like it, but. . . .  
  
Right now, there's nothing I could say that he _would_ like.  
  
"She would have thanked you."  
  
Yohji stares at me, and I can almost see his metaphorical hackles rising. "What . . . the fuck did you say?" he asks, dangerously low.  
  
"She would've thanked you," I repeat, then sigh. "Look, just calm the fuck down and let me tell you something. You said you wanted to try and help her become Asuka again, right? Take it from me, that would never have happened."  
  
"Why?" he demands, voice hard.  
  
"All of Schreint were too far gone to return to who they were, who they should have been," I tell him flatly. "Neu was one gaping black hole as far as my telepathy was concerned. There was no personality left there, just a series of reactions. It wasn't _Asuka_ who said she loved Masafumi, Yohji, it was the fucking reactions that he conditioned into her. All that was left of whoever she'd been – Asuka or not – was the vague feeling I got that somewhere inside, she was screaming." I shiver at the memory. "Gave me the fucking creeps."  
  
Yohji stares at me, and he feels fragile. "Schu . . . I killed her, Schu."  
  
I sigh, and shut my eyes. "Think of the Asuka you knew. Would she have wanted to live as a plaything and killtoy for an insane scientist?"  
  
For a long, long moment, nothing happens. I keep my eyes shut, staring at the inside of my eyelids, and wait for him to either hit me or start yelling.  
  
Then I hear a small, choked sound, and my eyes snap open. Yohji's hunched over in his chair, hands covering his face, pressed to his mouth, muffling the sound he makes as he cries. Impulse drives me over to his side and I yank him off the chair into my lap, cradling him as best I can – he's too big to fit properly, and he's gotta be uncomfortable with his legs scrunched up between me and the chair, but I don't give a shit. He rests against me bonelessly, and his hand falls to my chest. I half-expect him to shove me away, but. . . .  
  
He finds the edge of my shirt, clutches it tightly, and all I can do is hold him as he cries.  
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
I've discovered something.  
  
There is nothing more awful than the helpless feeling you get when a person you l– care about is suffering, and you can do jack shit to help them. I've practically moved into Yohji's apartment, staying with him twenty-four seven – and can only watch helplessly as he sinks into a deep depression. I've been sleeping in his bed (and _not_ for a good reason, either), I've been making him come to the bar with me, I've been hiding his stash of booze, I've even been fucking _feeding_ him, and nothing I do makes a damn bit of difference.  
  
I must be mad.  
  
We've settled into a kind of routine. I make him come to the bar with me every night while I worked, and spent the entire time trying to cajole him into a good mood.  
  
It never works.  
  
When we go home, I spend most of the time talking to him and he spends most of the time not saying a fucking word. I've withdrawn from him telepathically whenever he's awake, because I can't take the maelstrom of pain that washes through him.  
  
. . . I've been behaving like someone's fucking mother. Or wife.  
  
This is not amusing me.  
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
"What's up with him?" the boss murmurs to me two days later, as I'm serving some drinks at his end of the bar. He points down the row of drinks to Yohji, sitting at the counter and nursing a diet coke. I caught hell from the boss for skipping out earlier on in the week, but once he saw Yohji he shut up. I've even caught the other drunks in the bar giving him concerned looks.  
  
"His whole family and his girlfriend died a year ago," I mutter briefly, not looking at him as I rummage around for a fairly clean half-pint glass. It's as close to the truth as anything else.  
  
"Shit. Poor guy." The boss peers down the bar, frowning at the coke bottle. "Doesn't he want anything stronger than that?"  
  
"Probably, but I'm not giving it to him."  
  
"Customer's always right, Schu," the boss says, his eyes on me.  
  
I shrug. "Not when the customer's a friend who'd drink himself into an early grave if I gave him half a chance." I turn away, about to move off – when the other half of what the boss said sinks in.  
  
He knows. He fucking knows my real name. _Shit_.  
  
"Knew it when I hired you," the boss grunts after a moment, when I haven't moved, guessing why. "I don't know much German, but even I can figure out that no mother would name her kid 'John Doe'. And your blond friend kept calling you 'Schu'. It's not rocket science."  
  
"So what now?" I ask heavily. "You going to fire me?"  
  
"What the hell would I do that for? You're a good worker, and it won't be the first time an employee of mine has lied about who they are. If you'd brought any trouble my way it'd be a different story, but so far, so good."  
  
I turn around slowly and stare at my boss, incredulous. "And that's _it_?"  
  
He shrugs. "I don't know who you are or what you did, and I don't want to. But." He fixes me with a hard look. "If you _do_ bring me trouble, any trouble at all, I promise that you won't like the consequences. Do I make myself clear?"  
  
I nod, and turn away when the boss dismisses me.  
  
It's just so fucking nice to be reminded that I'll never escape my past.  
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
A week later, and Yohji's still depressed  
  
I'm on the verge of tearing my hair out from frustration. I wish desperately that Brad was here – he'd know what to do. He _always_ fucking knew what to do.  
  
But it's just me and my own incompetence.  
  
I drag Yohji into the bar and steer him to a seat, leaving him propped up at the bar before darting behind it. Opening the fridge put to the side of the glasses, I grab an old bottle of diet coke – one of the few non-alcoholic drinks we have left at the bar – and pop the top off, dumping it in front of him. "You want a glass?" I ask, and he just shakes his head as he takes the bottle. He doesn't drink from it, just stares blankly at the condensation on the outside.  
  
The routine is familiar, now, and that brings me no comfort at all. Sighing, I move down the bar leaving him with his thoughts.  
  
All I can think is that I want the old Yohji back. I want the Yohji who ordered whisky from me and then paid for it with my money, the Yohji who told me things I really didn't want to know about bar peanuts, the Yohji who . . . who was just more _Yohji_ than that – that—  
  
Goddamn. Walking. Corpse.  
  


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
I slump on the sofa, and stare at the glass in my hand.  
  
The liquid in it is clear, which makes sense because I'm drinking fucking _water_. Not the alcoholic drink I so desperately want – although vodka's clear, too, so I guess I could get away with that. But no, because Yohji would be able to smell the difference. There's no way in hell I'm letting him have any right now.  
  
. . .  
  
What I wouldn't give for a shot.  
  
I sigh briefly, and rub my face with my free hand, shoving the glass onto the table. I'm so fucking _tired_ – watching over Yohji's dreams every 'night' means I don't get much sleep. But I'll do it for however long I need to. At some point, I made up my mind to stick by Yohji through this – I'm not sure when, but that doesn't matter. I'm not going to let a fucking dead woman have him.  
  
Or a dead man, for that matter. He's _mine_, now, and I'm going to take care of him. I'm not the best the world can offer him, but I'm doing a better job of it than he is.  
  
I sigh again.  
  
"Schu?"  
  
I jump at the sound of Yohji's voice, my head whipping up to see him standing uncertainly in the doorway. He hasn't talked much recently, and he's certainly not started a conversation before now, which explains why his voice is a little rough. "Y-yeah?" I reply, unsteadily.  
  
Okay, so Yohji's not the only one who's fucked up at the minute.  
  
"I figured out why I didn't love Ken."  
  
Well, that came out of nowhere.  
  
I sit there blinking stupidly at him. After a moment, I realise he's waiting for a reply, and say, "So why didn't you, then?"  
  
Yohji shifts his position a little, looking away from me. "Ken was . . . he was _too_ nice," he says. "It made him . . . a little delusional, like he couldn't operate at the level of the real world. When he had to, it hurt him. I couldn't . . . he was just too naïve."  
  
Yohji lifts his head suddenly and I realise he's been crying again, his eyes red and puffy. I put my drink down and stand up, cautiously, not sure where the fuck he's going with this.  
  
"That's not the main reason, though," he says hoarsely. "The main reason . . . all the time, I kept waiting for a certain type of person, someone who was – someone who was just. . . ." Words fail him, and he stares at me beseechingly. I stare back, completely lost – I have no fucking clue what you're trying to say, Yohji, so . . . so find the words quickly, goddammit, because I want to know!  
  
"I wanted someone who was perfect," he says finally, his voice stronger and more clear than before. "Perfect for me, I mean, and Ken . . . was _too_ perfect to be perfect for me."  
  
Because that made sense.  
  
"So the real reason I couldn't love Ken was that . . . he wasn't you."  
  
I stare at him.  
  
_He wasn't you._  
  
Part of me really, really wants to know where the fuck this came from. The rest of me . . . the rest of me doesn't care, so long as it _stays_ here.  
  
Yohji offers me a shaky smile, and it's like the sun coming up. "I love you, Schu," he says.  
  
I keep staring at him, struck dumb.  
  
Without any conscious direction, I reach out and gently touch his mind. I've been avoiding doing this for the past week, and – and if I had, I would have realised that he's been healing all along. His depression this past week was just the last wave of the storm. He's not whole, not yet – he's scared and shaky and still far too raw, but he's healing. He's _healing_.  
  
I feel like nothing could stop the smile that breaks loose from me, stretching so wide it hurts. But it's a _good_ hurt, one I wouldn't trade for the world. I can feel the peace inside him where before there was only pain, and it occurs to me that I did that. I helped him. I gave him what he needed. I _didn't fuck up_.  
  
I don't remember moving, but suddenly he's in my arms or I'm in his and we're both laughing and kissing and holding each other tight. Leaning forwards, I kiss the corner of his mouth. "I love you too, Kudou Yohji, you fucking sentimental bastard."  
  
And he's laughing too as he kisses me back, and murmurs, "Pot, meet kettle."   
  
**[Owari]**   
  
I am very, very sorry it's taken me this long to finish the fic. I hope it was worth the wait! 


End file.
